


That Daring Game

by Lamachine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamachine/pseuds/Lamachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root and Shaw, undercover at a couple's retreat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this shipper's heart and this writer's mind, Asha Tumelo is played by Jasika Nicole and Irene Barysheva, by Anna Torv. Yep, that's how hopeless I am.

“Seriously, why can’t John ever be killer bait?” Shaw complains, tugging on her dress uncomfortably. It isn’t that she doesn’t love wearing formal attire; it’s that when she’s at work, she likes black and stretchy clothes that let her breathe and run and fight. Not high heels and tight cream white dresses. Besides, she hates fancy parties that don’t have any food.

 

“You’re not _killer bait_ , Miss Shaw,” Finch reminds her for the third time, “you are simply keeping a closer eye on our number.”

 

The number in question, Asha Tumelo, happens to be spending the next few days at an upper scale retreat for same-sex couples, where Shaw is supposed to keep a close eye on her while John works the case from the city. Before Shaw has time to protest that she’d rather go in guns blazing instead of this undercover crap, the door of the safe house opens, letting another woman through – also dressed to the nines.

 

“Hello Harold,” Root smiles as she walks down the stairs, pulling on the end of her dress, discreetly bringing attention to her bare legs – which Shaw thoroughly ignores. “Hello sweetie,” she flirts as she gazes at Shaw.

 

“Oh hell no,” Shaw moves aside, taking one look at Root before she stares angrily at Finch. “You said I was going with Zoe!”

 

John timely walks in before Shaw explodes, paperwork in his hand, his calm demeanor bringing some quiet into the room despite the tension that stills lingers. “Zoe had an emergency,” he explains, blue eyes apologizing, “but this’ll work.”

 

He’s all smiles as he hands each of them their file, and Shaw can easily imagine wiping that grin off his face with a mean left hook. She clenches her jaw and refuses to look inside the document, already knowing what it holds anyway; fake Ids, credit cards, registration papers for the couple’s retreat. The usual.

 

“No, it won’t _work_ ,” Shaw protests once more, stubbornly ignoring Root’s probably faked hurt expression.

 

“This is the only way,” Finch replies patiently. “Our number is attending an all-women couples’ retreat. Short of cross-dressing one of us, there is no other way.”

 

“I wouldn’t mind taking drag-Fusco instead of her,” Shaw grumbles, although she quickly grabs the keys Finch is offering. “I’m driving.”

 

Root doesn’t need to be told twice, and she walks up the stairs swiftly to open the door, letting Shaw through. “Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun together,” she smiles and reaches for Shaw’s hand.

 

In one quick movement, Shaw twists Root’s hand, threatening to break her wrist. She can hear a quiet _Miss Shaw!_ coming from Finch but she ignores it, locking eyes with Root as if to warn her. Beside her, despite her initial look of hurt and surprise, Root is smiling through the pain, and Shaw gives up before she has the time to say anything crude about it.

 

This number better be a victim, Shaw thinks, because if Asha’s a perp, she will kill Tumelo herself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Here,” Root offers Shaw a glass of whisky when she returns from the bar. “You like McClelland’s, right?”

 

“Let me guess, the Machine told you that,” Shaw answers, still scanning the room. A few other guests have arrived and despite the boring classic music – Shaw feels like she’s stuck in an elevator – many of them already started talking to one another. An easy crowd so far, she thinks; mostly they are businesswomen, a few artists. None of them look like much of a threat, but she knows better than to rule anyone out yet. When she takes a sip of her scotch, she relaxes a bit; as much as Shaw can relax while on the job.

 

“Educated guess,” Root replies with a wink before taking a sip of her white wine.

 

Through her earpiece, Finch inquires; “do we have eyes on our number, Miss Shaw?”

 

“Not yet Finch,” she answers, and checks out a woman that just walked in. Tall blonde, confident walk; she does stand apart from the rest of the crowd. Her eyes stay on her a moment too long, and when Shaw turns around, Root is staring at her, a curious grin on her face. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Root answers before she runs a hand down her arm, “sugarplum.”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes, fighting her instincts to pull her hand out of Root’s hold. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“Sure, anything you want, cupcake,” Root kids, toying absently with Shaw’s fingers, but before Shaw can argue on the nickname, she squeezes her hand. “Oh did you see the arms on that one?”

 

She directs Shaw’s gaze toward a woman who clearly spends most of her time body building and gleams. “I’d like to see _you_ handle her in a fight.”

 

Shaw smirks before she takes a sip. “I’d take her down easy.”

 

Root’s eyes are bright when she leans closer. “I’m sure, but how exactly do you fight someone twice your size?”

 

Shaw takes another sip of her whisky before she starts explaining the rudiments of most self-defense stances. She’s describing a few basic movements when she notices that Root isn’t listening really, she’s just staring at her with a weird gaze.

 

“And you already know all of that,” Shaw realizes.

 

Root gleams. “But I just love to hear you talk, sweetie pie.”

 

“You’re having the time of your life now, aren’t you?” Shaw accuses.

 

Root turns the wine in her glass, trying to act innocent. “It’s not like our trip to Anchorage, but it’s definitely something.”

 

Shaw shakes her head, but there’s definitely a smile lurking behind her mostly stoic features.

 

Finch buzzes in their ears once again. “Perhaps you could spend less time bothering Miss Shaw and more time doing your job, Miss Groves.”

 

Root rolls her eyes and Shaw’s smirk widens.

 

“Alright, you go this way, I go that way?” Shaw suggests, only instead of doing that, Root leans in.

 

“Or we could just...” She lets go of Shaw’s hand to run her fingers through Shaw’s hair. Urging her closer by the pressure of fingertips against her scalp, Root licks her lips and leans in. Her warm breath runs down Shaw’s skin and Shaw stops breathing altogether. Just as their lips are about to meet, Shaw finally snaps, rudely pushing Root away from her. Root’s elbow hits a woman behind her, spilling her drink all over the stranger’s dress.

 

“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry,” Root apologizes, embarrassed. “I’m so clumsy; she really can’t take me out anywhere.”

 

“It’s no problem,” the woman smiles, her Russian accent endearing – if Shaw was listening to her, and not blinking confusedly. “Things like this happen to me all the time. I’m, how do you say? Oh, all thumbs.”

 

“Oh no, but that’s a lie, isn’t it?” Root grins, placing a gentle hand on the woman’s upper arm and subtly pulling her towards the bar, Shaw in tow. “Aren’t you that model from that billboard?” She throws her eyes towards Shaw, forcing her to stay with them. “Honey you remember that billboard right? What was it for?”

 

“ _Revelation_ ,” the Russian offers. “And yes, it is me up there. Irene Barysheva,” she extends her hand, which Root gladly shakes.

 

“Alison Wells,” Root presents herself before pointing towards Shaw, “and this is my lovely wife, Ann.”

 

“Nice to meet you both,” the model continues, but Shaw still isn’t really listening, because Finch is telling her that Irene Barysheva is the number’s wife, and she understands how Root just played her. Her angry face must be showing despite her best efforts, because when she snaps back to the conversation, Root is angling towards the model, handing her a clean washcloth from the bar and whispering; “ignore her bad mood: she really didn’t want to come here this weekend.”

 

Fortunately, the model is all smiles and Shaw fakes one her way.

 

“Well, you have to let me make it up to you,” Root suggests. “At the very least, let me buy you another drink.”

 

The Russian seems to hesitate for a second, but Root’s smile is so warm, she bends. “Alright,” she gestures towards the barman, calling him towards them. “But only one.”

 

Root – Alison – starts talking about how her coworkers are going to be jealous that she met Irene, which of course bring them to talk about their respective jobs. Root’s cover states that she works in video games and they end up talking about esthetic principles and how it transcends everything in life and Shaw rolls her eyes, bored out of her mind. Her own cover mentions that she’s currently unemployed – that would be the cause of the tension in the couple, Finch had explained, but she thinks she really didn’t need that to have people believe that she and Root aren’t the best item out there.

 

“Miss Shaw, the entrance’s security cam just showed Miss Tumelo’s car arriving,” Finch warns her, and minutes later, the woman joins them.

 

Despite Root’s friendly attitude, Asha’s smile is cold and tensed as they share names, and turns downright to disdain when she asks; “and what about you, Ann? What’s your line of work?”

 

Root doesn’t need to look at Shaw to know that she’s clenching her jaw, repressing the angered answer that no doubt swirls around her tongue. She feels Shaw’s hold around her waist tightening, and she quickly cuts whatever response she’s about to deliver.

 

“Ann is between jobs at the moment,” she fakes a smile before she turns to Shaw. “But I just know she’ll be great at whatever she does next.”

 

The compliment seems so genuine, Shaw frowns for a moment. “Thanks,” she mumbles before burying her face behind her glass. She empties its contents rapidly and is grateful when Root changes the conversation subject, even if they are once again onto the ever so boring topic of fashion.

 

Through her earpiece, Finch explains that Tumelo owns a chain of boutiques presently being investigated in court for copyright infringement. Apparently, there’s trouble with their designer’s creations; something about using professional designs modified by semi-professionals in an attempt to lower the prices. Shaw smirks, mentally calling their number a fraud, when she notices Root’s elbow nudging her ribs repeatedly.

 

“What?” she groans in a low voice.

 

“Irene was asking you if you wanted another drink, honey,” Root replies, and under her smile Shaw sees a little annoyance with her lack of participation in the conversation. “She likes her scotch neat,” Root answers for her anyway.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes, thanks Barysheva for the whisky and continues to survey the crowd, listening to Finch’s new information about their number. When Finch mentions that Irene apparently has ties to the Russian mob, she finds herself intrigued by the woman once again, only it’s at this exact moment that Root decides to bid them good night.

 

“Well, it’s getting late,” Root announces, and Shaw wonders what she’s doing because things are finally about to get interesting. Barysheva has just mentioned an uncle that owns a bar and Shaw wants her to elaborate on that, her instincts screaming that there’s something important there.

 

“Miss Groves,”, Finch intrudes, “we need to gather as much intel as we can. I strongly recommend you stay where you are.”

 

“I don’t know, I’m not really tired,” Shaw insists on staying, flashing her ‘wife’ a smile.

 

“Of course not, you could sleep five hours every night and still be perfectly rested,” Root speaks with a thinly veiled reproach. She notices a few pair of eyes turning their way and turns towards Irene and Asha. “Would you excuse us for a minute?”

 

Root pulls Shaw away forcefully, getting them out of earshot but remaining directly in their eyesight, which only makes Shaw frown even more.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”, Shaw asks, shrugging Root’s hand off her arm.

 

“Asha’s heartbeat has significantly increased over the last half-hour and her palms are sweaty,” Root states as if it meant something.

 

Shaw sighs. “Do I want to know how you know that?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Root continues; “we’re making her nervous. We need her to trust us.”

 

“Which is why you should stay, Miss Groves,” Finch reminds her over the earpiece.

 

Root ignores him entirely, her eyes locked in Shaw’s. “What we need to do, is have a fight.”

 

“What?” Shaw’s frown deepens when she notices tears gathering in Root’s eyes.

 

“You weren’t listening, were you?” Root’s voice gains volume, a tremolo coloring her words as she starts the waterworks. “You never listen to me.”

 

“Oh come on,” Shaw complains, talking to Root more than to _Ann_. “That’s your plan, really? That’s how you wanna play this?”

 

When Root slaps her hard, she doesn’t know whether to be angry or impressed.

 

“It’s not a game,” she cries, and if Shaw didn’t know better she’d think it wasn’t a show. “Whatever, okay? I’m going to bed. You stay, enjoy yourself without me. You’re so very good at that.”

 

When Root turns around and walks out on her, Shaw blinks a few times. She feels the inquiring eyes of the crowd resting on her and she sighs, returning to the bar and pretending to be shaken up by the scene.

 

“I’m sorry about that,” she sits down on a stool, signaling the barman for another drink.

 

It’s hard not to smirk when Asha places a hand on her upper arm, a concerned look in her eyes where there had been only condescension before. “It’s alright,” her tone softens. “We all have our problems, or we wouldn’t be here.”

 

“Amen,” Shaw replies, sipping her drink as if lost in thoughts. “You know, it’s always been a dream of mine to own a bar.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When she walks into their room an hour later, Root has transformed half of it into Finch’s office. There are screens everywhere; camera feeds beside strange programs that Shaw would never care inquire about. Nevertheless, she walks up behind Root and takes one look at what she’s working on.

 

“You’ve been busy”, she states, impressed. Apparently, while Shaw was entertaining the couple at the bar, Root has sneaked into their room, bugged the place and hid a camera in the ventilation system.

 

“Doing my part for the team”, Root gleams, typing some kind of code on a laptop.

 

Uninterested in knowing what Root is planning next, Shaw opens the mini-fridge in hopes of having one last drink. When she sees only juice and water, she sighs. “Finch, why is there no alcohol here?”

 

Her earpiece remains quiet, but Root turns her chair around. “Harold’s gone to bed already.”

 

Shaw settles on a water bottle before taking the device off her ear, ditching it and her phone aside. She sits on the edge of the bed behind Root’s chair, eyes browsing the screens.

 

“Also, alcohol is a depressor, so it was available only tonight”, Root explains, returning her attention to her computer.

 

“That’s bullshit”, Shaw complains, downing her water as she watches the couple quietly settling into bed. When Irene and Asha turn off the lamps in their bedroom, Root types in a code, and the camera switches to thermal imaging instead, which only makes Shaw feel like an intruder. She takes a look at the only bed in the room and represses a sigh. “I’m sleeping in the tub.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Root rolls her eyes. “I won’t molest you in your sleep, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

Swiftly closing her laptop, Root reaches into the bag slumped against the desk, pulling out night clothes and a toothbrush.

 

“I’m not worried,” Shaw stubbornly argues.

 

Root smirks as she points her toothbrush at Shaw accusingly. “Then why don’t you sleep here with me?”

 

“I don’t share my bed”, Shaw states blankly. “Trust issues.”

 

“But you just said you weren’t worried,” Root taunts as she makes her way towards the bathroom.

 

Shaw turns around, only to notice Root hasn’t actually closed the door. Through the restroom’s mirror, she can see her change into her night clothes, and Root smirks when their eyes meet. “Look, I don’t do intimacy and relationships, okay?”

 

“We can share a bed without it being weird, you know. As two _colleagues_ ”, Root starts, returning in the room wearing an almost see-through white tank top and dark green pyjama pants. “Or as _friends_ ,” she continues, dropping her dress on the floor beside Shaw and locking eyes with her. She leans in, “unless you have feelings for me, Sameen?”

 

Her voice is low and raspy, and Shaw swallows hard. “I’m sleeping in the tub.”


	2. Chapter 2

She hasn’t slept much, the hotel’s coffee is terrible and she has had to eat her breakfast under the googly-eyed stare of her ‘caring wife’. It hasn’t helped Shaw’s mood that all retreat attendees were expected to attend some group hand-holding thing in the middle of a nearby meadow. She’s only grateful that Reese is the one on earpiece duty this morning, so he’s not scolding her for being antisocial. Otherwise, she’s pretty sure she’d _strangle_ someone – probably Root.

 

“As you’ll see, the first exercise is pretty simple,” the therapist explains as she walks amongst her patients, smiling. There’s a small breeze running through the leaves and all in all, despite the retreat’s publicised peaceful charm, Shaw only feels annoyed and bored. She’s keeping her eyes on Asha and Irene, but there really isn’t much to do but wait. “I simply want you to hug your partner.”

 

A few couples let out an uncomfortable laughter, while others embrace their partners immediately. Under a willow tree, _Alison_ smirks at _Ann_. “How romantic.”

 

“I’m not doing that,” Shaw warns Root, shoving both of her hands in her pockets and looking away.

 

“We’re married, Ann,” Root smiles, snaking her arms around Shaw’s neck despite her obvious reticence. “It’s not like it’s our first hug.” She has the audacity to wink, and not even properly.

 

“Give the girl some love, Shaw,” Reese kids over the earpiece.

 

Shaw frowns as she puts her arms around Root’s waist reluctantly. “I’ll punch the both of you,” she threatens in a low voice. Her hands sit like a dead weight at the end of Root’s back, although her muscles are as tensed as if she was about to fight. “But you’ll be first,” she whispers against Root’s collarbone.

 

“You may feel uncomfortable; give it some time,” the counsellor continues as she walks by Ann and Alison. “I want you to continue holding your partner until you get to the point where you both feel relaxed and content.”

 

“Well, we’re going to be here forever,” Root jokes in Shaw’s ear.

 

“Don’t talk,” the therapist adds, glaring at Root. “This isn’t a time for conversation, or for sexual advances. This hug is about intimacy, closeness.”

 

Shaw only tenses up more, but the shrink leaves them anyhow, and Root hides her face in the crook of Shaw’s neck to hide her laughter. Shaw would complain against being used as a human shield, only she doesn’t wish the therapist to pick them out of the crowd, so she remains silent. A minute later, when the therapist finally tells them that they can let go, Shaw moves aside as quickly as if Root had been on fire, and Root only smirks. “See, it wasn’t so bad?”

 

“You’re the one to talk,” Shaw argues, yet she’s strangely relieved the moment is over. “You almost blew our cover.”

 

“Now, we will do this once again,” the counsellor announces, and Shaw rolls her eyes, which only makes Root giggle like a school girl. “This time, I want you to repeat after me.”

 

Taking a few deep breaths, Root tries to turn down her laughter, but Shaw’s anger only doubles and fuels her amusement. The other couples around them are overtly staring and Shaw feels quite inadequate until she realises most of them are judging Root more than her, and she takes a little bit of pride in knowing that despite all odds, she’s not the one screwing up their cover right now.

 

The therapist circles the meadow once again, walking amongst her patients. “As I hug my partner,” she speaks up, and the group repeats after her while addressing their significant others.

 

“As I hug my partner,” Root’s voice is gleaming as she goes over the words, “I know she is real.”

 

Shaw feels Root’s tears of laughter smudging against her own cheek and she scowls. “Come on Root, keep it together.”

 

As the other couples continue repeating after the therapist, “and mindfully meet this person with open arms and an open heart,” Root only whispers, “can you believe people actually pay for that stuff? I really don’t get it.”

 

“Yeah, me neither,” Shaw replies in a low voice. Root’s heated breath runs down Shaw’s neck and Shaw closes her eyes for a moment, allowing the surprisingly soothing warmth to calm her frustration. Root seems to notice the shift, because her breathing slows down, her body not shaken by laughter anymore. After a moment, she pulls apart slightly, a curious expression in her eyes. She swallows hard when she cups Shaw’s cheek, wiping away with her thumb the smudge of tears she left on Shaw’s skin before Shaw kindly replaces a strand of hair behind Root’s ear.

 

“How are our girls doing?” John questions over the earpiece, which only startles them both.

 

Shaw barely blinks before she peaks over Root’s shoulder, all back to business. “Good, I think.”

 

Asha and Irene don’t look nearly as comfortable as most other couples in the meadow, but Shaw tries not to read anything in it – not liking hugs is something she entirely gets, yet it doesn’t really seem like motive for a murder.

 

“Irene’s uncle is laundering money for the Russians,” Shaw focuses on the job, ignoring the tickle that comes with Root’s fingers toying with her curls. “Easy access to hire a gunman.”

 

Root sighs. “Yes, but she mentioned yesterday that she’s the one who suggested the retreat,” she argues. “Why bother with therapy if you’re about to have your wife killed?”

 

Over the earpiece, John smoothly joins in. “To have her alone in one place, maybe? Finch said she travels a lot, and always with her assistant.”

 

When the therapist tells her patients that they can let go of their partner, Root pulls apart first and notices a confused look on Shaw’s face that quickly dissipates.

 

“Where’s Finch, by the way?” Shaw asks, clearing her throat as she turns around to gaze at the counsellor, currently explaining the schedule of activities for the day.

 

“Checking up on the assistant, a certain Ryan Silva,” Reese replies. “I’m going to pay a visit to Elias, see what he knows about that uncle. You girls are going to be okay on your own?”

 

Shaw stares and Root ignores her, running a hand through her hair. “I’ll be fine, but I can’t guarantee I won’t kill her,” Shaw threatens, but there’s no heart in it, and she’s only rewarded by a gleeful smile.

 

 

* * *

 

In the counsellor’s office, _Ann_ stares out the window, barely listening to what her wife is saying. Across the large cedar desk, the counsellor takes notes, and Shaw doesn’t need to guess what’s written on there. _Uncooperative_. _Distant_. _Refuses to communicate_. It’s not her first time in therapy, and even though she knows she’s supposed to be Ann right now, her distrust of the whole profession beats her will to maintain her cover.

 

“Well, I work long hours so, I’m not often home,” Root speaks, twisting her fingers together, faking anxiety. She’s good, Shaw thinks. If she didn’t know better, she’d actually believe her, and probably feel like a crappy girlfriend. It’s a good thing she doesn’t. “I think it bothers her more than she is willing to admit.”

 

Shaw remains silent. They both agreed earlier that Root would take point on the whole therapy thing, and she has decided it means she doesn’t actually have to say anything. Moreover, she has settled on never agreeing with anything Root suggests, if she finds herself forced to speak. So far, Root’s managed to talk her way out of most curveballs, and Finch – back empty-handed from Asha Tumelo’s office – scowled her only once, so Shaw considers it’s going pretty well.

 

“Do you believe Alison is right about that, Ann?”

 

Shaw pulls her eyes away from the window, sends one look to the therapist, and then turns to Root. She stares for a few seconds, gauging how frustrated Root is starting to get with the whole ordeal.

 

“No, I don’t believe she is,” Shaw states blankly, and Root glares. “Actually I think she spends too much time at home.”

 

“Sarcasm, really?” Root retorts. She looks genuinely angry now, which only makes Shaw smile. About half an hour ago, Shaw has noticed a little twitch at the corner of Root’s eye every time she gets annoyed at something, and Shaw’s thwarted every subject of conversation since. It’s nice to finally be able to push some of Root’s buttons, for a change.

 

She doesn’t really expect Root to start crying, though now that she thinks back to last night’s exit plan, she realises she should have seen it coming.

 

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” _Alison_ cries, hands trembling, ready to make a scene.

 

One awkward look shared with the therapist tells Shaw that she’s supposed to say something, anything. “Yeah, no, I do,” she blurts out, ill at ease when she puts a hand on Root’s shoulder.

 

“You don’t even love me anymore, do you?”

 

Root throws her eyes into Shaw’s, and behind the tears and the Ann facade, Shaw clearly understands that this is her way of getting even. Root clenches her jaw; there’s no way she’s losing this game – even though she’s not entirely sure how it started, or even what the rules are.

 

“Miss Shaw, I think you are expected to participate a little bit more,” Finch reminds her over the earpiece.

 

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Shaw finally replies, forcing her voice to soften. She somehow still hopes to get out of the situation by treading lightly, even though she feels strongly that it isn’t what Root wants. Root wants her to say _I love you_ , just because she can make her, and Shaw thinks she’s being such a competitive brat right now. Risking their cover for something so ridiculous is despicable, and Shaw hates her, and why is she slightly turned on right now?

 

“I need to hear you say it,” Root insists, lowering her voice dramatically, quiet tears running down her face. “Is that a crime?”

 

“No, it’s not,” the counsellor confirms, and Shaw cringes. She can’t find a way out of this, and she really, really doesn’t want to say it. “It’s absolutely normal to wish for some reassurance in a relationship.” Shaw instinctively closes her fists, and she knows she never wanted to hit Root so much as she does now.

 

Shaw glares at Root – a look they both know means “I fucking hate you right now”, but the therapist probably takes it for a shared moment. After a moment of silence, Root wipes away her tears, and Shaw opens her mouth, trying to force the sentence out. Trying to say the three words she hasn’t spoken since her father died.

 

Something must have crossed her features, because suddenly Root cuts her off. “No, okay, I shouldn’t have said that,” she rushes the words, and the therapist probably believes she is addressing Alison about her emotional outburst, but somehow Shaw thinks she’s genuinely apologising to her, for having pushed it too far. The feeling is confirmed when Root brushes a finger on her closed, tensed fist. “It won’t happen again.”

 

“This is a safe space,” the therapist insists. “It is important that you both use this opportunity to say what you truly mean, without filters.” When both women refuse to add anything, she continues. “I find when we are having trouble in a relationship, we often forget about what the other does for us. Now, I want you both to tell each other one thing that the other does that makes you happy.”

 

Root seems to hesitate. “Anything?”

 

“Anything,” the counsellor validates, and Root’s body language changes radically from contrite to mischievous.

 

Root flashes a smile before she throws her eyes into Shaw’s. She pushes a lock of black hair behind Shaw's ear, imitating the gesture Shaw had done only hours prior, under the willow tree.

 

“Well, in bed, you are...” she smiles and puffs, as if there are no words to describe what she means. She leans in and lowers her voice. “You make me come like no one else.”

 

“No need to become crass, Miss Groves,” Finch warns in her earpiece, and there’s a glint of joy in Root’s eyes, obviously pleased that she managed to shock him. Shaw welcomes the change of atmosphere, and she smiles back, enticed.

 

“A healthy sex life is very important,” the therapist agrees, though with a slight hesitation. “Ann, do you have something you want to say to Alison?”

 

Shaw doesn’t waver. “You’re pretty good too, babe,” she winks. Over the earpiece, she can almost _hear_ Finch’s facepalm.

 

Root smirks – clearly forgetting all about boring old Alison. “Yes, but _how_ good?”

 

“Miss Groves!” Finch protests.

 

“Obviously, this part of your relationship seems quite... beneficial, to the both of you,” the therapist interrupts, seemingly uncomfortable.

 

“ _Very_ ,” Root replies, grabbing Shaw’s hand as she turns to face the counsellor. “We have a safe word and everything.”

 

“The things she does with a knife,” Shaw jokes, but she hears Root breathing in sharply, and doesn’t repress her smirk.

 

The counsellor’s expression is to die for, but it doesn’t last long before she composes herself. “Do you often involve pain during intercourse?”

 

“It’s a form of communication, you know,” Root speaks. “Really, you ought to try it once; it spices things up nicely. Otherwise, relationships are so boring.” She rises to her feet, and Shaw follows. “Well, I believe our hour is up, and _you_ have to go and move your car, ‘cause it’s about to be towed.”

 

The therapist blinks a few times and looks at her clock, confirming that it has been an hour.

 

“How did you...?”

 

Root is already out the door when Shaw turns around, leaning on the doorway.

 

“It’s annoying when she does that, right?”

 

Then she leaves, a smirk glued to her face, and runs up to Root. “Hey, what’s up?”

 

“Someone’s making a move,” Root explains, not sparing her a look. Shaw deduces she’s listening to the Machine, and remains quiet by her side.

 

They are both walking fast as long as they are still in the building, but as soon as they reach the outside, they’re running. Shaw follows Root without a word and pulls out the Nano she stuck under her belt this morning. Her eyes roam the landscapes for threats, not noticing anyone in the courtyard, the meadow or even the hiking trails above their heads.

 

“Sniper,” Root warns, pointing towards a black shadow moving quietly amongst the trees. Before they go up the path any further, Shaw pulls on her arm, forcing Root to stop. She points towards the trail, silently telling Root to go onward, and then indicates that she’s going the other way around, through the bushes under the hiking track. Root nods before she quickly resumes her run.

 

“What’s going on, Miss Shaw?” A worried Finch asks over the earpiece.

 

“Not now, Finch,” Shaw whispers, trying to make as little noise as possible as she moves through the trees. The less used road she’s chosen should take her right under the threat, but there are a lot of obstacles along the way. Movement on her left shows a few people have gathered out of the building for a smoke, and while Shaw doesn’t see her, she knows Asha is amongst them.

 

She deduces that she’s close enough to her target when she hears Root’s voice. “Excuse me, sir,” she speaks innocently, as if she hadn’t notice that the man was holding a rifle and pointing the muzzle towards a crowd. “Have you seen my wife?”

 

Shaw hears the sniper rustling amongst the leaves, probably jumping to his feet. She pulls herself up slowly, and as she’s climbing the short cliff, the sound of someone loading a gun reaches her ears. “Who the fuck are you?” the man asks with a threatening tone and a slight Russian accent, but Root doesn’t answer. “What do you want?”

 

“My wife,” Root repeats, making a step forward, ensuring he keeps his eyes on her. Shaw has managed to sneak her way up, but she’s still a few meters away behind the sniper and carefully approaches, trying to remain as silent as possible. “I was wondering if you had seen her. She’s kind of short, real good-looking, and kind of always pissed... have you seen her?”

 

The confused man only raises his gun furthermore, aiming for Root’s head, although he seems utterly shaken by the fact that she’s not frightened by his weapon at all.

 

“Oh, nevermind,” Root shrugs. “She found you.”

 

With a swift movement and the back of her gun, Shaw knocks him unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

“Finch, are you sure Fusco can’t come pick him up?”

 

Shaw stares at the unconscious Russian laying on the bathroom floor and uses the back of her hand to brush the sweat off her forehead. How they managed to bring him inside while avoiding the other attendees of the retreat and with everyone from the hotel believing their drunken friend story entirely goes over her head; she guesses Root’s innocent smiles has something to do with it, though.

 

“I’m afraid you’re on your own, Miss Shaw,” Finch explains over the earpiece. “Mister Reese is still out of reach, and Detective Fusco is busy with another case.”

 

She checks the tie-wraps once again, making sure they’re tight enough to keep him in place, tied to the iron pipes of the wall heater. The guy is still knocked out cold, but she knows a few tricks to wake him up.

 

As if she could read her mind, Root appears behind her. “We have to go,” she says, barely sparing a look towards their captive. “Someone will notice we’re missing.”

 

“So, what’s the plan then?” Shaw scowls when she turns around to face Root. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving the guy there, but she knows they don’t really have much choice.

 

Root doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though. She flashes the _Do Not Disturb_ sign and grins like it’s the funniest joke. “He should be fine on his own for a few hours.”

 

Shaw shakes her head before she pushes past Root, her shoulder rudely hitting Root’s along the way. She pulls up her luggage and unzips it, ignoring the dozen of weapons she’s brought along and searching the pocket where she stashed an emergency kit, a few vials of drugs and syringes.

 

“You didn’t pack very lightly,” Root remarks, frowning as she leans on the bathroom’s doorway.

 

“Gotta be ready for anything,” Shaw replies, quickly filling up a syringe with one of the solutions. “Should keep him out for a little while longer.”

 

When she returns to the restroom, Root still stands in the way, stubbornly staring her down. Shaw walks past her unimpressed, her body brushing against Root’s along the way, but Shaw only rolls her eyes and ignores her. She bends her knees, sitting on her ankles as she grabs the guy’s arm and injects him with a barbiturate. Behind her, she feels Root’s stare.

 

“What?” Shaw groans as she returns to her feet.

 

“Just admiring your work, Sameen,” Root purrs, and it doesn’t sound like _her work_ was what she was admiring.

 

“Are you certain he didn’t say anything of importance, Miss Groves?” Finch asks over the earpiece.

 

“No, he just threatened me and then Shaw knocked him out,” Root repeats dutifully, a certain glint in her eyes, like Shaw had been protecting her specifically, and not just doing her job. Shaw chooses to ignore it, and Root continues. “He had a Russian accent though.”

 

“No ID on him Finch,” Shaw adds, returning to the bedroom to examine the rifle once again. She opens the marine duffle bag they found with him and searches through its contents, setting the firearm aside on the mattress, though not before she quickly dismantles it. “His toy is brand new, but I don’t think he’s a pro. Doesn’t seem like a mob hit.”

 

“Why is that?” Root asks, sneaking up behind Shaw.

 

“If he were you’d be dead,” Shaw replies coldly, but Root doesn’t budge.

 

Finch steps in once again. “You believe him to be a mercenary, Miss Shaw?”

 

“A shark, yeah,” she repeats. “And Asha’s blood in the water.”

 

“Which means there will be more to come,” Root completes, walking towards the room’s entrance and letting her hand rest on the doorknob. She waits until Shaw has set aside her luggage and the disassembled gun before opening the door, grinning. “Shall we?”

 

 

* * *

 

Leaning with her lower back pressed against the counter, Root stares as Shaw works, suddenly feeling like software omniscience isn’t enough to make her feel adequate, ever again. “Well, you certainly area woman of many talents,” she flirts, but her careless attitude doesn’t fool Shaw.

 

“Don't look so surprised,” Shaw warns her, pulling open the utensils drawer to get a whisk, but she can’t find it. She searches the countertop, noticing Root has made a mess of things – _again_ – and finally sees it behind the flour. Around them, at the other cooking stations, most couples are chatting and flirting, so when the counsellor’s eyes fall on her, she stands a bit closer to Root. “We’ve been married a long time,” Shaw reminds her in a whisper.

 

Root fakes a smile. “I know,” she murmurs, snaking her arm around Shaw’s waist and pulling her close, “and I have to say, you’re even more gorgeous than the day we met.”

 

Shaw doesn’t flinch, and keeps her eyes into Root’s as she grinds her hips deeper into the Root’s, locking her against the counter. Root gasps and closes her eyes when Shaw leans in, only to open them in surprise when Shaw pulls back with a small laugh. She shoves the measuring cups she just reached for into Root’s hands, a satisfied grin on her face.

 

“I think we’re supposed to be _both_ working on this,” Shaw reminds her before she returns to the stove. “Something about learning to be a team.” She stirs the custard, peeking at the nearby cooking station to subtly spy on Asha and Irene. They seem to be arguing about something, but Shaw can’t make up what they’re saying.

 

“Irene’s mad that Asha’s not really helping,” Root fills her in, hovering behind her.

 

“There’s plenty of that going around,” Shaw replies, but Root doesn’t seem to catch her drift. She turns to face her and stares. “Well?”

 

Root only grins. “Well...” she looks at the measuring cups in her hand and the ingredients on the counter, embarrassed.

 

“You never baked anything in your life, have you?” Shaw mocks.

 

Root flinches. “Maybe.”

 

Shaw stares her down, but Root doesn’t move. “Alright, just... grate the chocolate,” Shaw offers. Root nods, but hesitates as she looks at the mess on the counter. Behind her, Shaw sighs before she quickly sets up a place where Root can work. “And when you’re done you can clean the dishes.”

 

Root makes a face, but starts her task anyway. She looks uncomfortable, like she’s uncertain of what’s expected of her exactly, and once or twice, Shaw checks up on her, casually laying a hand on her thigh as she does. Every time, the gesture startles Root, who quietly struggles to keep her composure.

 

“I had no idea you baked,” Root whispers at one point, smiling as if she’s uncovered a secret.

 

“I don’t,” Shaw replies coldly, and Root doesn’t ask anything else.

 

Shaw is almost done spreading the icing on the cake they were asked to prepare when Root appears beside her, awfully cheery. “I’m done with the dishes,” she gleams before she runs a finger in the icing before she licks it clean, staring into Shaw’s eyes. Shaw frowns and is about to say something when Root plunges another digit, further destroying her work. “Want some?” she offers with a devilish smile.

 

Root sees the jaw clenching, the knuckles whitening and she smiles, but it disappears quickly.

 

“They’re slipping through the back door,” she warns before Shaw can protest against her careless approach to cake presentation and basic kitchen sanitation. Sparing one look to the side, Shaw sees that, in fact, Asha and Irene have deserted their station without her noticing.

 

“We can’t risk losing our eyes on them, Miss Shaw,” Finch reminds them, but they’re already making their ways towards the door.

 

“Everything all right here?” The counsellor appears beside them, a disapproving look on her face.

 

Root opens her mouth to answer, but Shaw cuts her off. “Yes, I just need a moment alone with my wife,” Shaw smiles with as much warmth as she can muster, reaching behind her back to grab Root’s hand inside hers. “There’s something I really need to discuss with her,” she pulls Root closer. “Some words I need to say.”

 

The counsellor nods, evidently proud of Ann’s hypothetical progress, and it takes all of Shaw’s strength not to roll her eyes at that. She guides Root out the room through the front door, but then lets her take the lead instead.

 

“Have you found them?” Finch asks, his stressed voice coming over the earpiece.

 

“We’re on it,” Shaw replies in one breath, almost running when they turn the corner of the building. Shaw barely has time to make out the shape of the couple, leaning against the brick wall, before Root pulls her back.

 

In the momentum, Root’s body crashes against the building, dragging Shaw along with it, and Root winces when Shaw collides into her hardly. Shaw glares at her, a look between confusion and frustration, until Root leans in. “They’re kind of busy,” she hints.

 

Shaw sends one glance around the corner before she hides again, pressing her body further into Root. Root hesitates; “should we leave?”

 

Shaw only frowns, clearly uncertain, until they distinctively hear Asha telling her wife that she needs to tell her something important. That settles it, and both women stay still, trying to listen to the conversation. Despite the short distance between them and the couple, the windy weather isn’t helping, and when Shaw pulls out her phone, trying to blue jack one of their cell phones, it doesn’t connect with anything.

 

Shaw is barely aware that her hand is resting on Root’s waist, just as Root hasn’t noticed her hand is still fisting Shaw’s sweater, holding her close. They both stop breathing when Irene’s voice reaches their ears, but cannot make out the words.

 

“Not here,” Asha replies, and Root’s eyes widen. She doesn’t have to say it for Shaw to understand that their number and her wife are currently walking towards them, only seconds away from finding them, if not spying, at least intruding on a very private moment. Acting on her first instinct, Shaw grabs Root’s collar and leans in, crashing their lips together.

 

Root gasps briefly before she returns the kiss, raising one hand to tug on Shaw’s hair as the other pushes on her lower back, drawing her closer. She feels Shaw’s breath running down her cheek, her tongue brushing Root’s lower lip before she bites it lightly, and Root unwillingly lets out a quiet moan.

 

When Asha and Irene appears beside them one second later, Root doesn’t have to fake the red embarrassment that spreads on her cheeks.

 

“Oh my god,” Asha looks startled, but smiles nonetheless. “We’re so sorry!”

 

Shaw has the decency to move apart slightly, and Root looks down for a second, gaining her composure before she returns her gaze to the couple in front of her. “No, no,” she gestures, pushing Shaw a bit further apart. “We were just... um...”

 

Beside her, Shaw isn’t helping; she smirks like she’s proud of herself, and Root knows she won’t hear the end of it. She mentally curses her lack of self-control before she continues. “There’s something about this place that makes us act like we’re fifteen again, it seems,” she smiles. “It’s embarrassing.”

 

“Don’t be,” Irene leans in, placing one hand on Root’s shoulder. “Love is a beautiful thing.”

 

Root thanks her in one breath as they take their leave, and tries to avoid looking at Shaw once they are left alone.

 

“Miss Shaw, you need to follow them,” Finch suggests, and although it startles Root, she also seems to recuperate from the shock.

 

“No,” she refuses, confident once again. She teases; “we need to get a room.”

 

It’s Root’s usual and personal mix of flirtatious banter, but somehow it tightens something in Shaw’s stomach. Root doesn’t seem to notice when she grabs her hand, pulling her along as she returns into the hotel. It takes only a minute for Shaw to realise that Root is truly leading them back to their room, and the knot in her gut only worsens.

 

When they arrive, they see a maid standing in front of their door, and she’s toying with the _Do Not Disturb_ sign as if she’s wondering if she should respect its authority or not. Shaw slowly reaches for her gun, but Root places one hand on hers, effectively stopping her.

 

“Thanks, we’ll take those,” Root sends a smile to the cleaning lady, although Shaw easily hears the fake kindness that she pours in her words. Root uses her key card to open the door to their bedroom, pulling Shaw in before quickly closing it behind them.

 

Leaning against the door, Shaw blinks a few times, observing as Root leaves the towels on the bed and pulls up the chair in front of the desk. She enters her password and then types in a few codes, and Shaw finally moves to stand beside her, a hand absently resting on the back of the chair.

 

On the foremost screen, they look as Asha and Irene enter their bedroom, deep in discussion.

 

“How did you know they’d go back to their room?” Shaw asks.

 

“Well, wouldn’t _you_?” Root suggests with an innocent voice, but her eyes run down Shaw’s body with a devilish grin.

 

Shaw shakes her head and points towards the computer. “You bugged the place, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Root replies, returning her attention to her task.

 

“Turn on the microphones, then,” Shaw reminds her.

 

Root blinks. “Right,” she agrees, although by the time she manages to turn up the volume enough to hear what they are talking about, the couple is whispering, holding each other close. “I just have to tweak that,” Root tells Shaw, but she has already lost interest.

 

“I’m gonna go check up on our guest,” she announces just before she slips away into the bathroom, and seconds later, Root hears running water falling in the sink.

 

When Root manages to amplify her bugs’ range, Asha and Irene have moved to the top of their bed, and it seems the conversation has been put on hold for some make out session. The sounds coming from the speakers definitely aren’t rated PG, and Root chuckles lightly when she hears a curse coming from the bathroom.

 

“Could you dial it down?” Shaw asks, and Root appears at the entrance of the restroom with a gleaming smile. She stares at the little drops of water falling on Shaw’s forehead and the way Shaw brushes them away with a towel in a swift motion.

 

“Any inspiration, Sameen?” Root peeks in, and Shaw seems a bit confused by the question. “On what we should do next.”

 

Shaw fully understands that Root is talking about the mission, but she also hears what she’s obviously implying, and she swallows hard.

 

“Turn off the volume,” she orders, and Root pouts, although she obeys, immediately returning to her desk. When she sits down, though, she frowns.

 

“Shaw?”

 

“Seriously Root, just close the damn speakers,” Shaw repeats, angered as she walks up to her.

 

Root ignores her. “Look at that uniform,” Root points at the screen, where they see a maid fumbling with some towels on her cart, a few doors down Asha’s room. Her uniform resembles the one from the employee they met only minutes before, but it isn’t an exact replica. Root selects other security camera feeds, locating several other cleaning ladies who all share the same outfit, with the hotel’s logo encrusted on the upfront pocket. Without it, the woman in Irene and Asha’s corridor suspiciously stands out.

 

“This maid is not like the others,” Shaw replies, grabbing her handgun and loading it. “Wanna be my eyes?”

 

“I thought that was Harold’s job,” Root replies, but signals her to leave as she turns her attention to the multiple screens in front of her.

 

“I don’t have access to the cameras you have installed yourself, Miss Groves,” Finch reminds her.

 

Root snorts. “Still haven’t managed to hack me, Harry?” She doesn’t let him enough time to retort, focused on the task at hand; “go left, Shaw.”

 

She guides Shaw through a few more turns as Shaw rushes down the corridors, hiding her weapon every time Root warns her about someone walking by. When she finally reaches the maid, the woman is holding a pile of towels in her hand and standing in front of the room, ready to knock. Shaw almost has déjà vu, only she knows this time, there actually is a threat.

 

“I’m sorry, miss?” Shaw gets her attention, and in the surprise the stranger moves too quickly, the towels shifting enough to reveal the tip of a muzzle. Shaw pretends she doesn’t see as she steps closer to the woman’s cart. “I’d need one or two other glasses for my room, could you help me out?”

 

The maid nods and points towards her cart, which Shaw passes by quickly. By the time the woman realises what’s happening, Shaw’s already on her, rendering her unconscious with a sharp right hook. The gun falls on the floor and Shaw quickly picks it up, securing it behind her belt.

 

“Security’s making its round,” Root warns. “Walk down the corridor, room 309 is unoccupied.”

 

Shaw pulls the unconscious bounty hunter towards the end of the corridor, stopping in front of the door. She tries turning the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge. Shaw quickly searches the woman’s pockets, yet cannot find any master key. “It’s locked, Root,” Shaw tries to keep her voice down as she hears footsteps coming closer.

 

“Give me a second,” Root replies.

 

“I don’t have a second,” Shaw argues.

 

“There,” Root announces triumphantly, and Shaw hears the clicking sound of the lock opening. She shoves herself and the maid inside room 309, closing the door just in time to escape from the security guard’s sight. She leans back against the door, letting the unconscious maid fall unceremoniously onto the floor.

 

On the earpiece, Reese jokes; “I hear you’re starting a shark collection, Shaw?”

 

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Shaw welcomes him while, as a force of habit, she clears the room. “I kinda got my hands full here.”

 

“Yeah, well, turns out our girl has quite the story,” Reese answers cryptically. “She’s in –”

 

Root cuts him off, beating him to the reveal, but there’s something weird about her voice. “She’s in the witness protection program.”

 

“Root?” Shaw enquires, checking the false maid’s pockets once more, just in case she missed something. “How the fuck did you know that?”

 

“She just told her wife,” her voice is strange, uneven, and her breath is ragged. “And the security guard.”

 

“What? What the hell is going on?” Shaw asks again, rising to her feet as she waits for instructions or information, whichever comes first.

 

Root’s answer isn’t reassuring; “the maid wasn’t working alone.”

 

Shaw recognizes the dry tone, the serious composure. “Root, what are you doing?”

 

Over her earpiece, the only response she gets is three gunshots muffled by a silencer, followed by a dead silence.


	4. Chapter 4

“Root?”

 

The static on the earpiece only fuels her anger, and Shaw loads her gun. She sends one look toward the unconscious bounty hunter she just dropped to the floor, curses herself for not having any zip ties on her, and then turns towards the door.

 

Her hand hasn’t reached the doorknob that already she hears Reese’s calm voice. “You’re clear, Shaw,” he informs her. Still when she leaves the room she peeks out first, a force of habit.

 

A few rooms down, she sees the maid’s abandoned cart and the towels that fell on the hotel’s carpet only minutes ago, both untouched. She frowns as she makes her way forward, gun drawn out with tensed muscles. “Finch?”

 

As if he guesses what she’s about to ask, Finch quickly replies; “I still have no access to Miss Groves’ cameras. We have no way of knowing what is happening in Miss Tumelo’s room.” He sounds nervous and worried, and Shaw doesn’t know if it’s about Root’s wellbeing or the mission’s status, but she guesses both.

 

The entire floor is awfully quiet, and she tries listening through the door, yet cannot hear anything. “Root?” she asks again with a low voice, although at this point she doesn’t really expect an answer. She remains on guard as she turns the doorknob slowly, hoping on keeping the element of surprise if possible, even though the chances are slim. There’s only one way in the room, the shooter is already inside and she’s got no eyes to help.

 

She finds the door locked and represses a few colorful curses.

 

As she’s considering whether she wants Finch to hack the hotel and give her access or if she’d rather shoot the damn lock and be done with it, the door opens slightly. Shaw immediately raises her gun, but no one appears; it just remains there, ajar, as if waiting for her to come in.

 

She nudges the door open with the tip of her boot, breathes in deeply and enters, keeping her back to the exit, and then to the wall. As soon as she walks in she hears a cry, and notices Asha and Irene hiding in the corner, hands rose in the air as if held at gunpoint. To her right she senses a presence and she points her weapon, ready to fire.

 

“Close the door,” Root tells her with a cold voice. Root doesn’t look up; she has her own weapon aimed at the security guard lying on the floor, and clenches her jaw. Shaw immediately notices the faint movements of the guy’s chest, indicating that he’s still breathing, and she closes the door without a word.

 

“Turn on the TV,” Root orders again, and Shaw considers disarming her, but the number and her wife seem too panicked and shocked, so there’s no telling what they’ll do next.

 

Shaw looks around the room, then at Irene. “Where’s the remote?”

 

The blonde points towards the settee, trembling, and when Shaw passes in front of them, both women gasp, tears running down their cheeks.

 

“241,” Root instructs, and when Shaw turns on the television she switches to that channel. Gunfire startles the couple, but Shaw knows all too well the difference between sound effects and actual gunshots, therefore she doesn’t react, only puts down the remote.

 

“Miss Shaw?” Finch asks, and although still troubled, his voice sounds a lot calmer than it was only seconds ago. “What’s happening?”

 

Shaw clears the bathroom before she returns to the entrance of the room. “No one’s dead Finch,” she replies passively. “Root shot the security guard, though.”

 

Root makes a face, which Shaw chooses to ignore.

 

“How are Miss Tumelo and Miss Barysheva?” Finch inquires over the earpiece. Shaw sends them a look; they haven’t moved, crashed against the wall, holding each other like it’s the end of the world. She rolls her eyes, “they’re okay.”

 

She returns her attention towards Root. “Wanna tell me why the hell you went all Rambo on that guy?” she tries to keep her voice low, knowing the sound of the action movie isn’t covering their voices perfectly. Root points behind her and Shaw sees a Glock; probably the killer’s weapon that she pushed aside after she took him down.

 

Shaw grabs the gun, clips out the charger and empties the chamber. She sets it aside, holding on to the ammunition, which she shoves down her front pocket. Over the sounds of the explosions on the screen, she can barely make out the hisses of pain coming from the guard or the frightened cries of both Asha and Irene.

 

“I called for you and you didn’t answer,” Shaw speaks again while she puts herself between Root and the guard, kneeling to check him for another concealed weapon. She knocks him out, and then finds on him a knife and some pepper spray. “Three times.”

 

Behind her, Shaw hears Root lowering her gun and putting back the safety. “I was busy,” she simply states, though lacking her usual careless tone.

 

Shaw frowns before she rises back to her feet and turns around, her anger only growing. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

 

“I had to protect them,” Root replies, a curious look in her eyes. “I thought that was the job.”

 

“Your _job_ was to be my eyes,” Shaw answers, pissed off.  “I was just four doors down Root, what the hell were you thinking?”

 

“You had your hands full already,” Root opposes. “And I’m not helpless, you know.”

 

Shaw steps to the side, running a hand through her hair. She looks again towards the frightened couple, Root and then the guard. “Shit,” Shaw sighs. “Did you _have_ to shoot him?”

 

“He was about to shoot _them_ ,” Root wavers her gun towards the couple, who both flinch.

 

As if the gesture is bringing her back to reality, Irene swallows hard before she speaks up, still crying; “what’s going on?” By her side her wife has an empty look in her eyes, almost as if she was shell shocked.

 

“Maybe you should reassure Miss Barysheva and her wife on your intentions, Miss Shaw,” Finch suggests, but it is Root that tells them bluntly, “look, someone wants your lovely spouse dead and we’re here to make sure they don’t succeed.”

 

Her voice is a bit warmer than it was moments ago, but it’s still not heartfelt.

 

Irene looks confused and blinks. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

 

Almost simultaneously, Asha announces, void of any expression; “I have to call my handler.”

 

Over the earpiece, Reese warns them; “not a good idea; he’s been compromised.”

 

Shaw repeats the information and Tumelo winces. Her wife takes her in her arms and promises that everything’s going to be fine; Shaw sighs impatiently, but the couple seems to have calmed down for now, at the very least. Shaw gladly returns her attention on their security guard problem.

 

“He’s bleeding all over the carpet,” Shaw thinks aloud. “Shit.”

 

“Do you think you could stop cursing for a minute and help me figure this out?” Root asks.

 

“No,” Shaw stubbornly replies, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “And you thought I’d be the one to fuck up our cover.”

 

Root rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. “We could invite our guest over,” she proposes, but Shaw only frowns, so she continues, “the one currently resting comfortably in our bathroom.”

 

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Shaw nods, grinning. “I’ll go get our friend; you stay here.” She moves towards the door, but turns around just as she’s about to exit. “Try not to shoot anyone else.”

 

Root flashes a smile, “I’ll do my best.”

 

“What’s your plan, Shaw?” Reese questions as she closes the door behind her, picks up the towels and throws them in the maid’s cart. Then, she makes her way into the corridors, pushing the service trolley up to her room while she answers; “we’re gonna pin the shootout on Shark Number One.”

 

She uses her key card to get inside the bedroom and pulls in the cart behind her. Quickly, she empties the contents of the service trolley, creating a mess of boxes of soaps and shampoo lotions, towels and various cleaning supplies. Once she’s done, she finds the Russian sniper where she had left him earlier, still out cold. She dutifully checks his vitals just in case he’s faking being unconscious; when she’s sure he’s truly out of it, she cuts him loose and pulls him to the cart.

 

Shaw struggles a bit with jamming the wheels of the trolley so that it doesn’t move, but once she’s done it’s easier than expected, to pull him into the lower compartment into a probably really uncomfortable fetal position. She closes the curtains of the front of the cart, effectively hiding his presence, and then returns to the entrance of the bedroom.

 

Glimpsing at the screens on the desk, she sees that the way onward is clear. She opens the door and pushes the cart through, only stopping to lock behind her, and mentally curses as she struggles with the added weight. Once she’s gaining speed, the travel through the corridor becomes easier, but she’s brought to a stop when Finch’s voice warns her; “Miss Shaw, there’s a guard right around the corner.”

 

She manages to get the service trolley to the side, but she looks suspicious enough that the guard hails her right away. “Hey, you!”

 

She doesn’t flinch, turning towards him with a charming smile. “You got me,” she raises her hands, opening them to reveal a few samples of shampoo. “I’m all about free stuff.”

 

The guy laughs it off. “I couldn’t care less,” he smiles, and she easily recognises the feigned indifference, the nervous waver of his voice, the uneasiness in his stance. The way his eyes constantly drop down. “But the boss asks us to intervene, so...”

 

“It’s alright,” she leans back on the cart, consciously trying to keep his eyes off it even though she knows he can’t actually see the unconscious Russian she’s hiding in there. “So what now?”

 

She represses the gag reflex that comes to her when he licks his lips unconsciously; his gaze roaming her body once again as she forcefully widens her smile.

 

“Well, maybe I didn’t see you,” he replies, trying to sound flirtatious – and failing.

 

“Yeah, maybe you didn’t see me,” she winks. “And maybe I didn’t take anything,” she places the samples back on the cart.

 

He nods and falls silent for a few seconds, obviously searching for words that refuse to come to him. The security guard finally gives up and starts to walk away, but a few doors down, he changes his mind and turns around. “Hey, I was thinking,” he awkwardly tries, “you wanna have a drink later, or something?”

 

Shaw fakes a smile. “Oh...” she pretends to be surprised. “Actually, I’m gay.”

 

“That’s a shame,” he replies, visibly embarrassed.

 

“I doubt my wife would agree,” she winks.

 

The guard is still laughing nervously when he turns the corner, and Shaw immediately drops the smile.

 

She manages to push the service trolley up to Tumelo’s room without any other run-ins. Once she’s there, Shaw doesn’t have to knock for the door to open; Root welcomes her with a smile and pulls on the other end of the cart, helping her in, before she quickly closes the door behind Shaw. Looking around the hotel’s bedroom, Shaw sees that Root hasn’t wasted her time; she trashed the place, spilling the contents of the couple’s luggage over the bed and floor, to suggest looting or robbery as a motive. She thinks Asha and Irene are probably pissed about that, but they are both sitting on the floor in a corner, tears drying on their cheeks like two punished children.

 

Shaw opens the cart’s curtains and pulls the unconscious bounty hunter out, dropping him where Root had stood when she shot the false security guard. Then, she grabs Root’s weapon and cleans off her prints before she places the gun in the Russian’s hand.

 

“We done?”

 

Root hands her a knife. “There’s a bullet you’ll have to retrieve,” she points at the wall next to the door. “I’ve tried but my hands are a little shaky.”

 

Shaw looks at the hole in the wall and then back at Root, noticing she’s clutching at her arm, seemingly uncomfortable.

 

“He got you?”

 

“Just grazed,” she shrugs like it’s nothing. “But my blood’s on that bullet.”

 

Shaw scowls and reaches for Root’s shoulder, but Root pushes her hand away. “I think we have more important things to deal with right now than playing doctor,” she flirts.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes and grabs the knife from her hand before she jams it in the crack on the wall, scratching the sides to get the bullet to fall out. “Bullet hole with no bullet’s not gonna look good.”

 

“We’ll have to shoot another one in,” Root replies as if it could easily be done. Shaw turns around sharply.

 

“You know that’s almost impossible,” Shaw replies.

 

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Root smiles, and Shaw glares at her before she returns her attention to the hole in the wall. When she finally manages to pull it out, she gives it to Root and sighs.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

Root shrugs. “Well, have you got a better idea?”

 

Shaw doesn’t answer; she sets the knife aside and reloads the security guard’s Glock with a concentrated look on her face. She moves to stand right above him, awkwardly placing a foot on each side of his body, and tries to aim.

 

“You’ll have to be taller,” Root tells her. “Stand on the bed?”

 

Shaw glares at her, yet takes a step back and climbs on the bed. Her feet are sinking into the mattress and she breathes down deeply as she searches her balance, her eyes focused on the tiny hole in the wall.

 

“A bit lower,” Root instructs.

 

“Do _you_ want to do this?” Shaw asks roughly, and Root keeps her mouth shut.

 

When Shaw fires, Root rushes to the wall. “It’s not perfect,” she notes, “but I think it’ll do.”

 

Shaw groans as she climbs down the bed, then looks at the hole she made. “You don’t know what you’re talking about; it went through just like it should’ve.”

 

“The angle isn’t right,” Root complains.

 

“We’ve got two guys, most likely both with criminal records, shooting one another in a trashed hotel room,” Shaw answers. “They’re not going to fucking check angles.”

 

“I know,” Root agrees. “I’m just saying, it’s not perfect.”

 

“Yeah well next time you try it,” she walks past Root, shoulder hitting her along the way, and misses the way Root’s face contorts in pain. She turns around just as Root manages to hide it. “Or you know what? Next time don’t get yourself into a situation you can’t deal.”

 

Root frowns. “I can deal.”

 

“You kneecapped the guy when you should’ve just disarmed him, and got yourself shot,” Shaw argues, and Root clutches at her arm absently. There’s a slight trace of worry in Shaw’s voice and they both look down, avoiding looking at each other, purposefully ignoring it.

 

“Okay,” Root concedes in a low voice. “Now, what do we do with them?”

 

When they turn to look at the couple, Irene and Asha turn into the physical embodiment of the expression a deer in the headlights.

 

 

* * *

 

“We’re going for robbery gone wrong,” Shaw explains Finch as she shoves two glasses of whisky inside Asha and Irene’s hands. How Root managed to get them a bottle is still uncertain, but she’s not about to ask. She leaves them sitting on the edge of the bed and moves to join Root at her desk. “Would help if you could get Fusco on board.”

 

Root is typing in all she could gather on Asha’s true past and identity while Finch argues; “you are far from his district, Miss Shaw.”

 

“Alright then, I say we make a run for it,” Shaw tells him while she cleans the wound on Root’s arm. It’s easier to ignore the hisses of pain that Root lets through than the smile that tugs at Root’s lips as Shaw works.

 

“Screw our cover,” Root’s smirk widens at Shaw’s choice of words, “we bring the girls back in New York.”

 

They left the sniper and the false security guard unconscious in Tumelo’s room half an hour ago, so she knows there’s still time to leave before the police arrive, but very soon that won’t be an option.

 

“Mister Reese is tracking down the man that ordered our number’s execution,” Finch explains, “but it appears he has deep connections all over the east coast.”

 

Shaw is getting annoyed of the tiptoeing around. “What are you saying?”

 

Root fills up two new glasses of whisky with her good arm, and waits until Shaw is done bandaging her wound before she offers her one. “He’s saying it’ll be easier to protect them from here,” Root translates. “Limited access, limited number of people,” she continues, returning her attention to the screen as she takes a sip and grimaces.

 

“So we’re keeping our cover?” Shaw asks, surprised.

 

Finch agrees. “For the time being,” he specifies. “The police will probably have questions for Miss Tumelo and Miss Barysheva, since a cleaning lady just called 911 to report two wounded men in their hotel room.”

 

“We’ll need an alibi,” Shaw declares, and Root raises her glass as if she is about to make a toast. She turns her chair around, looking at the scared couple before she joyfully smirks at Shaw.

 

“What do you think we’re doing?” she winks. “Drink up, Sam.”


	5. Chapter 5

“That’s a dumbass plan,” Shaw repeats for the third time, staring down the bottom of her empty glass. She doesn’t even look at Root anymore, while Root busies herself with safely packing aside the screens and surveillance equipment she had set up just one day before. When Shaw had offered her help earlier, she rapidly had her hands batted away by Root, the gesture accompanied with some mumble that sounded like _don’t touch that you’ll break it_. She chose not to insist, then, and sat down.

 

Buzzing around the room, Root refreshes her drink, and then Irene’s. “Nothing says alibi like a security report,” she winks at Shaw.

 

She’s almost done, but right before she zips up her luggage to set it aside, she pulls a small black container out of it, and it appears shaped like a glasses case, but entirely made of plastic. Root thoroughly ignores Shaw’s curious stare and walks over to Asha, a smile on her face. “You still smoke, right?”

 

When it clicks open, she reveals a few cigars piled up on one another, and Shaw grumbles. “You had cigars and two bottles of whisky in your stuff since we got here?”

 

“No, the businessman in room 205 did,” Root laughs. Before Shaw has time to complain that he might report the theft, Root shakes her head. “Oh relax Sam; he’s not going to say anything. He didn’t exactly plan on drinking and smoking those alone, if you know what I mean.”

 

There’s a short silence as the playlist moves on from one song to the next, and Root settles on the edge of the bed, staring at the inebriated couple. They haven’t been drinking for long, but the four of them have been chugging down the whisky quite heavily, with Root always filling up theirs glasses, and now there’s a slur in Root’s voice that Shaw finds strangely enticing.

 

“So, maybe it’s time you tell us what happened to you on that roof.”

 

Asha looks like she’d rather continue drinking in silence, but her wife squeezes her hand lightly, and she sighs. She absently taps a rhythm with her fingers on the chair’s arm rest as she speaks, and it seems to match her words as well as the song that’s keeping them company in the background.

 

“I was living in Philly back then. Studying architecture,” she takes a deep breath and shifts uneasy on her seat. “Sometimes I went up this building’s rooftop, down my street, and I just... looked at the skyline,” she lowers her eyes, and has a soft smile when she looks up again. “It wasn’t the greatest view in the world, but it felt like it.”

 

A tear runs down her cheek and Irene brushes it away with the stroke of her thumb. Asha takes another sip of scotch before she continues.

 

“One night, these guys came,” she continues with a straight voice, though obviously still frightened by the memory. “They – they didn’t see me, but I saw them,” her eyes widen. “I saw them kill that kid.”

 

“Noah Park,” Root turns to Shaw, pupils unfocused like she’s not really there – like she’s listening to something no one else can hear. “Just turned eighteen, murdered by Michael Hayes. Hayes was the leader of a bikers’ gang that was trying to make its place in the East coast’s drug trade.”

 

Shaw frowns. “How did the kid get mixed up in that? Eighteen’s a bit young to be a drug lord.”

 

Root stands up, sighing as she scratches the back of her neck. “Sometimes it’s all about who you’re related too,” Root explains before she reaches for the remote. She sets the volume a bit higher – the music not loud enough for anyone to complain yet, but still rather impolite for the people of the neighboring rooms.

 

“Anyway, Hayes’s business has had a considerably growth over the years,” Root continues, offering Shaw another refill. There’s a strain in her face when she focuses on pouring the liquid, and Shaw would mock her if she wasn’t trying to concentrate on the job. “It’s impressive really, when you think that he’s been operating from behind bars all this time.”

 

“Because of you,” Shaw adds, staring at Asha as if she didn’t believe her story, only she does. It’s Irene’s silence that she finds worrisome, but she pins her slight paranoia on the alcohol, and doesn’t give it a second thought.

 

Still standing beside her, Root is peeling off the corner of the bottle’s sticker with her thumb’s nail as she speaks. “Her testimony and a partial print were all the cops had in their case against Hayes, but with his criminal record and his frequent run-ins with the Park family, it was enough for a conviction.”

 

Shaw sips down a bit of whisky before she questions; “what changed?”

 

“Partial print was flagged in another case a week ago; some murder in Boston.” Root’s voice is slowed down like she’s tired, or relating someone else’s words.

 

“Okay, but I thought fingerprints were unique,” Irene comments, obviously confused by the whole ordeal.

 

“Everything has a flaw,” Root replies, tugging at the sleeve of her vest where it brushes against her bandage. She sets the bottle aside, grimacing. “Fingerprint analysis isn’t foolproof, especially with partials.”

 

Shaw’s eyes run from the couple to Root as she muses; “if Hayes asks for an appeal, the print won’t hold up in court.”

 

“And if there is no more witness...” Root stops there, staring at the alcohol in her glass. She swallows it down quickly, makes a face and turns up the volume once again.

 

“How do we go after a guy that’s in jail?” Shaw asks to no one in particular, although she knows that she’s speaking low enough that only Root can make out her words, and that Asha and Irene are out of earshot now that the music is so loud.

 

Root has a strange smirk on her face when she turns to Shaw. “Well that’s Reese’s problem, not ours,” she replies almost happily. When Shaw groans, Root laughs. “Don’t look so frustrated Shaw, we’re having a party.”

 

Shaw shakes her head. “And what do we do now?”

 

“Now’s the fun part,” Root cranks up the volume and the music fills the air even more, working with the whisky to numb their senses. “Now we get in trouble.”

 

Something about the way she says _trouble_ finds Shaw very interested.

 

Root is staring right into her eyes when she steals Shaw’s drink, raising the glass to her lips before she takes a long sip. Root swallows hardly, and then turns towards Asha, a mischievous grin on her face. “You should really smoke that; it’s your favorite.”

 

“How did you know?” Asha asks, toying with the cigar.

 

“Because she knows everything,” Shaw groans under her breath as she reaches out and rapidly takes her whisky back from Root. When she empties its contents down her throat, Root’s smirk widens.

 

“I know you like that about me,” Root argues while the scent of the cigar slowly fills the room. Shaw breathes down deeply when Root runs a hand through her hair, eyes locked on her, yet surprised when she finds Root straddling her on the chair.

 

“You mean I hate that about you,” Shaw replies with a hard voice, but her hands settle on the end of Root’s back, ensuring she doesn’t fall off her lap. “Security’s at the door,” Shaw informs her, and Root smiles like she’s up to no good. “But I guess we’re too busy to hear them.”

 

Root leans in, her warm breath falling on Shaw’s lips as she whispers, “that’s the plan, Sameen.”

 

“It’s a dumbass plan,” Shaw repeats, yet when Root kisses her she easily gives in. Only five seconds in and she’s biting; Root gasps in a most enjoyable way. It pulls at something in Shaw’s chest and she finds herself deepening the kiss in a rush, pushing her tongue in Root’s mouth and tasting the fine whisky again, with something more – something strangely enticing and pleasantly spicy.

 

The cigar’s smell seems distant now that Root’s perfume invades her, and Root’s hands are tugging at her hair while Shaw kneads thighs and ass alike. The speakers’ low thrums run a smooth rhythm against her skin and Shaw thinks she doesn’t mind that plan so much after all.

 

At that exact moment, the hotel’s security manages to open the door, allowing two guards to step in, both angry at first and then obviously embarrassed.

 

“Have you guys ever heard of knocking?”

 

 

* * *

 

“You do realize that smoking is prohibited while indoors, ma’am?”

 

The clerk clearly doesn’t agree with his manager’s decision to allow Alison Wells and her lovely wife to keep their room for another night, but unfortunately for him, money makes the world go round. If they appeared somewhat in trouble when security escorted them to the front desk, it quickly vanished as soon as Root flashed her credit card. She made a few promises of paying for any damages to the property, and voila; charges dropped.

 

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Root uses her mockingly innocent voice and Shaw rolls her eyes.

 

While Root signs some agreement papers, Shaw sends one look towards the closed door of a nearby office. A few minutes before, a detective has pulled Asha and Irene in there, and she doesn’t like not having eyes on a number. She winces slightly while she remembers the couple’s panicked expression when the clerk identified them as the two occupants of room 301. “It’s alright, we’ll see you later,” Root had reassured them, a gentle hand on Asha’s arm as she encouraged them to leave.

 

Still, despite Root’s reassurances that Tumelo and Barysheva are completely safe while in the police’s custody, Shaw can’t stop thinking that something is off; that they have missed some important detail along the way.

 

“I don’t like this,” she mutters for the third time, voice still a bit slurred by the scotch.

 

“Everything will be fine,” Root promises, hooking her arm with Shaw’s, but as soon as they turn to leave the front desk, they meet the angered eyes of Alison and Ann’s therapist.

 

The woman has both of her fists resting on her waist, and she looks like a comical rendition of an annoyed old lady scolding kids playing on her front lawn. “I hear you were found drinking and smoking in your room,” she admonishes, and it doesn’t help her credibility.

 

“You forgot making out,” Root laughs, careless and probably quite tipsy, but Shaw punches her side with her elbow to silence her, and accompanies the gesture with a threatening glare.

 

“We’re sorry,” Shaw quickly replies, offering the counsellor a smile, but she smells the alcohol in her breath and ends up grimacing. “We got a bit carried away.”

 

As if reading her mind, Root pulls out mints from her pocket and offers one to Shaw. “We were just reliving our younger years,” she innocently adds, but there is a dark, hungry glimpse in the back of her eyes. She stares at Shaw, placing the candy on the tip of her tongue like she’s daring her to do something about it.

 

“I really don’t think you two take this retreat seriously,” the therapist sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest, clearly annoyed with the couple.

 

“We’re serious,” Shaw grabs Root’s hand inside hers as if trying to prove a point. “We haven’t been this close in years,” she fakes a smile, although she knows that it doesn’t truly sound sincere.

 

Root smiles, absently brushing her thumb against Shaw’s skin. “Actually, I don’t think we’ve ever been _this_ close,” she uses that flirtatious voice again. Shaw’s annoyance flashes on her features for only a second before she squeezes Root’s hand hard enough for it to hurt.

 

“No, you’re right, babe,” she crushes her fingers between hers even more as she runs her eyes from the counsellor to Root, “I don’t think we have.” Root is smiling through the pain and Shaw tries not to stare, slightly impressed.

 

The shrink sighs and sends a look at the watch on her wrist. “Well, you’re fifteen minutes late for our appointment.”

 

“Won’t happen again,” Root promises, raising her other hand as if swearing on an invisible bible. She pulls on Shaw’s arm to drag her along as she passes by the counsellor, turning her head around to spit a joyful, “shall we?”

 

While she leads them through the corridors and towards the therapist’s office, Root leans in, her body lightly bumping into Shaw’s as they walk. “By the way, the ‘maid’ is gone,” she whispers. “She stole a car and everything.”

 

Shaw frowns, also keeping her voice low. “We know where she’s going?”

 

“Our Friend is keeping her eyes on her,” Root shrugs as they reach the counsellor’s office.

 

When they enter the room, it hits them both. Following the impossibly loud music in their bedroom and the crowded hall of the hotel, the sudden silence seems almost deafening. Awkward, they quickly let go of each other, taking the two chairs on one side of the desk and waiting for the therapist to talk, and finally relieve them of the quietness. For a moment, Shaw muses on the idea that they might be expected to apologize once more.

 

Only, when she peeks to the side, she notices the counsellor pinching her nose in annoyance, and guesses that another apology would not be welcomed. The shrink slowly closes the door and slips on a mask of professionalism before sitting in front of them. There, she still pretends to search for a particular page in her notebook, letting the couple in front of her simmer in the uncomfortable ambiance.

 

Finally, she suggests; “have you ever heard of role-playing?”

 

Shaw already knows what Root is about to say before she opens her mouth, so she isn’t surprised when Root gleams. “Oh, we just love it.”

 

The counsellor doesn’t look taken aback, but she clearly isn’t pleased with the answer either. “I meant, for therapeutic purposes,” she clarifies.

 

“Yes well, I’m not sure I could say I believe in sexual healing,” Root replies with the most innocent smile and Shaw’s annoyance reaches a new level.

 

“She means role-playing therapy,” Shaw interrupts, running a hand through her disheveled hair. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

 

Beside her, Root shifts on her seat, turning to face her. “Look who’s talking,” her breath smells sweet and sharp, like mint cream. “The queen of hot and cold,” she continues, her voice gradually changing from teasing to frustrated. “One second you’re telling me to fuck off and the next thing you know you’re shoving your tongue in my mouth.”

 

“Oh, and you’re better?” Shaw taunts. Her mouth is dry and there’s a headache blooming inside her skull as she speaks; “you flirt with everyone all the time; it’s all corny lines and double meanings with you.”

 

Root laughs, but it’s somewhat bitter. “Sure it would look like that to someone who cares for nothing but a stupid dog!”

 

“You take that back,” Shaw threatens.

 

They glare at each other for a few seconds until they realize that the therapist is standing behind her desk, trying to get their attention.

 

“Okay, now you might understand why we strongly discourage our participants to consume alcohol during the retreat,” the counsellor starts, and Root and Shaw roll their eyes almost synchronically at the unspoken _I told you so_. “Now, clearly there are a lot of tensions we need to discuss,” she simply states, although behind her professional facade, she looks almost happy that the couple is falling apart. “But first, I want you two to focus on using _I_ statements. You have to try and put yourself in your partner’s shoes–”

 

“I’ll start,” Root cuts her off brusquely, an irritated look brushed on her inebriated traits. She turns to Shaw and fakes a smile. “Hi, I’m Ann and I complain all the time.”

 

She’s holding her hand out, waiting for Shaw to shake it, but Shaw doesn’t fall for that. She crosses her arms and glares.

 

“Okay then, I’m Alison,” she starts, closing her hands into fists, burning up – from the anger or the whisky, she really can’t tell –, “and I enjoy the sound of my own voice way too much.”

 

“That’s not exactly how this works,” the counsellor tries to object, but the two patients thoroughly ignore her presence.

 

Root raises her voice even though she leans in, her face twisted in a childish scowl. “I’m dark and serious all the time.”

 

“I do whatever I want, no matter how stupid it is,” Shaw retorts, closing the distance between them until there’s nothing but a ghost lurking between their lips.

 

Root smirks. “Well,” she runs a finger down Shaw’s cheekbone, “at least I don’t stop myself from doing what I want just because I’m afraid to care about someone.”

 

“Oh, do I?” Root sees the anger swelling in Shaw’s eyes but she does not blink. Shaw clenches her jaw. “Is that what you think?”

 

Before Root has time to answer, Shaw pulls apart. “I guess it’s good that the opinion of someone who hears voices and thinks she’s bulletproof doesn’t mean anything to me.”

 

“I said I was sorry,” Root weakly replies, confused with what to do with the return of Shaw’s hostility.

 

“No you didn’t, and this...” Shaw stands up and sighs loudly. “This is bullshit.”

 

It’s almost a miracle that, over the sound of the door opening and the reckless beating of her heart, Root hears Shaw’s low voice. “And I’m not doing this anymore.”


	6. Chapter 6

Shaw smells the coffee’s sweet scent before Root’s citrusy perfume, but she doesn’t react to either. Her eyes remain focused on Asha and Irene, holding hands and talking at a picnic table in the hotel’s court, even though nothing remotely interesting has happened over there for almost an hour now. She has bluejacked Tumelo’s cell and has tried to listen to their conversation at first but quickly got bored, and now her earpiece continues to hum their incessant chatter, but she’s not really paying attention.

 

Especially now that Root’s stare seems to be trying to dig a hole into her cheek.

 

Root’s shoulder bumps into hers and Shaw decides on ignoring her, even though Root manages to shove a to-go cup of hot black coffee into her hands. As a reflex her fingers curl around the container but she forces herself not to drink it yet, out of spite. The warmth spreads rapidly on her fingers and she welcomes the heat; the evening’s cool breeze is blowing through the trees and making Shaw shiver, so she pulls on the end of her vest’s sleeves, searching for some comfort.

 

“Our stunt has gotten unwanted attention,” Root speaks with a low voice, still standing beside her, but diverting her stare towards the couple. Shaw doesn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’s listening, but since her stance subtly shifts, it is enough for Root to tell. “There are four U.S. Marshals on their way here now.”

 

“That’s good then,” Shaw replies before swallowing a sip of coffee. “They’ll put Tumelo back in the program and we’ll be done here.”

 

“Yes,” Root starts, “except the inspector assigned to her case has been corrupted, remember?”

 

Shaw lets out an annoyed sigh, wondering why she hasn’t heard any news from Finch about all of this yet. “Reese said he was taking care of it.”

 

Root moves a bit closer to her, obviously trying to get Shaw’s attention even though she doesn’t dare stand directly in front of her. “He and Harold are still at the prison, talking to Hayes.”

 

“And the inspector responsible for Tumelo’s security?” Shaw asks before she takes another sip, her eyebrow frowning slightly.

 

“On his way here right now,” Root confirms.

 

Shaw turns to look at her then, and immediately Root notices how tired she looks. For a minute, she wonders if Shaw’s fatigue is caused by her night sleeping in the tub, or if it has everything to do with getting into fights with Root all weekend, and she feels a twinge of guilt that she quickly brushes aside.

 

“The USMS doesn’t know he’s corrupted,” Shaw guesses aloud.

 

“Exactly,” Root confirms before answering Shaw’s unasked question: “ETA forty-three minutes.”

 

Shaw shifts uncomfortably, looking at the couple again, and absently checking for her sidearm. When she finds it still safely tucked in its holster, she relaxes. “Forty-three?”

 

“And twenty-seven seconds,” Root adds.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes, and it brings a little smile to Root’s lips. “I have a plan,” Root continues, gaining more confidence now that Shaw hasn’t sent her away or yelled at her in more than a minute.

 

Shaw glares at her; “does it involve blowing our cover and shooting a lot of kneecaps?”

 

“Probably,” Root gleams, choosing to ignore the sting.

 

Shaw groans, but doesn’t seem as angry as before, just vaguely annoyed. “Okay.”

 

“Okay then,” Root smiles and steps in front of her, placing both of her hands on Shaw’s shoulders. “I’ve got two pairs of handcuffs in our room,” she speaks as neutrally as she can, and Shaw sees how she struggles to keep a straight face and not flirt. She continues with a serious, down-to-business tone, and yet her low voice sparks something inside Shaw when she requests; “I really need you to get them for me, please.”

 

 

* * *

 

“You have to be kidding me,” Shaw complains.

 

She has one hand on the steering wheel and the other frozen on the keys dangling from the ignition. The engine is still turning even though the vehicle itself is motionless in the parking lot, and Shaw almost looks startled when Root’s hand touches hers. Root’s fingers cup Shaw’s while she turns the key for Shaw and smiles.

 

“Trust me,” she says joyfully, but there is this glimpse of doubt in her eyes, like she’s not entirely sure Shaw actually does.

 

Shaw just sighs. She doesn’t reply, but as soon as she opens her door, it triggers a chain reaction and all three passengers step out of the car as well. Root pulls out the handcuffs from her pants’ back pocket and throws one to Shaw, who catches it in one swift movement.

 

“Cuff her,” Root orders before she turns to Asha and grabs her wrists, pulling them behind her back. “It’s just for a while,” she promises.

 

Shaw obeys without a word, but as they are both locking the restraints in place, Root’s eyes meet hers, and Shaw notices something dark looming in Root’s stare. She easily recognizes what it means and smirks. “Are you comfortable? Does it hurt?” she asks Irene with a softer voice than usual, and Root looks away, obviously infuriated.

 

Once they’re both done, Root quickly leads the four of them through the parking lot towards the police station, and they follow silently. The shadow of the building looms over them even with the setting sun, and Shaw looks around, mentally counting patrols cars and officers on the premises. She doesn’t like the numbers she gets.

 

Inside, as soon as she reaches the main counter, Root flashes out a badge to the policeman on duty.

 

“Special Agent Augusta King,” she identifies herself, and the young officer lifts an eyebrow and runs his eyes from her to Shaw. Root turns to her and nudges her elbow in her side. “I think Officer... Peterson,” she reads his identification, “would like to see your badge, Sarah.”

 

Shaw hides her annoyance and runs a hand through her pockets but doesn’t find it – which isn’t surprising, because she doesn’t remember Root actually giving her any identification. Root leans in then, pulls open Shaw’s coat and shoves her hand into the interior pocket. From there, she takes out a FBI ID badge and drops it into Shaw’s hand, her fingers brushing against Shaw's palm.

 

“She’s always locking the keys inside the car too,” Root winks at the dumbfounded officer. “Now,” her voice returns to a more serious inclination, “is Sergeant Harris around?”

 

The young Peterson looks confused, but an older policeman appears behind him.

 

“Agent King and Agent Marks, sir,” Root identifies them both again, flashing her badge. “We have two suspects we need to interrogate, we were hoping for your collaboration. Where’s your Sergeant?”

 

The man doesn’t look pleased. “At home, sick with the flu,” he replies roughly, and Shaw sees from the corner of her eye that this absence wasn’t in Root’s plan. “You want to question those two?” he walks around the counter and looks them down like they’re nothing more than pieces of meat. “I never mind a girl in handcuffs, but they don’t look the part.”

 

He looks at Shaw and seems to think she doesn’t look the part either. Shaw stares him straight in the eye as she says; “because they’re women they can’t be criminals? You know that’s bullshit right?”

 

The man looks baffled for only a second before he laughs and turns to his colleague. “The tiny one’s sure got a mouth on her, huh Billy?”

 

Officer Peterson smiles nervously.

 

“Alright, come on back,” the older policeman opens the flap door and offers them to go through; “ladies first.”

 

Shaw glares at him, yet she keeps quiet and dutifully follows Root inside.

 

“Where’s your interrogation room?” Root asks, and the man laughs again.

 

“We don’t have anything like that here Miss,” he answer with a condescending tone, as if her request had been one of the silliest he’s heard all day.

 

Stepping forward, Shaw corrects him; “it’s Agent King to you.” She places both her hands on her waist, forcing herself to remain polite when she asks: “where do you conduct your interrogations?”

 

“In the Sergeant’s office,” Officer Briggs points towards a closed door, the smile dropping from his face. “You’re not using his office.”

 

“We’ll be using the break room, then,” Root announces, and pushes open a nearby door before pulling Tumelo in. Behind her, Shaw takes the time to smirk at the officer before she follows with Barysheva.

 

Inside, only one policewoman remains, sleeping her lunch hour away on the couch. “Agent Marks,” Shaw shoves her badge into the officer’s face when she wakes up, “beat it.”

 

Root laughs when the policewoman leaves with a glare, and she turns to Shaw with an endearing grin. “That wasn’t very nice.”

 

“Been a long weekend,” Shaw defends as she quickly clears the room.

 

There doesn’t seem to be any cameras or surveillance system in here, and the only technology she sees is an old TV stuck in one corner. Apart from that, a few desks stuck together in the middle of the place create a makeshift table with mismatched chairs, and the couch looks worn out. The faded yellow of the walls is hidden behind several file cabinets, and Shaw finds the window opens on a little woodland.

 

Asha clears her throat shyly. “Can we get rid of these handcuffs?”

 

Shaw turns to Root, uncertain.

 

“No,” Root replies coldly, pinching her nose as if thoroughly annoyed by the question.

 

“They’re kind of tight,” Tumelo complains again, but Shaw ignores her all the same. Something is off, she thinks, and she wonders for the hundredth time why she hasn’t heard back from Reese or Finch yet.

 

Root only smiles though, and winks at the number. “Trust me; it’s really no fun when they’re not.”

 

She takes no notice of Shaw’s stare and stops paying attention to the couple as well, turning towards the window to look outside with a worried look. The setting sun makes it impossible to see further into the woods, but somehow, Shaw knows it isn’t what’s bothering Root.

 

 “Something wrong?” Shaw asks just as she appears by her side, standing so close that her warm breath reaches Root’s cheek like a ghost.

 

Root flinches slightly – because of Shaw’s proximity or something else, she really can’t say. She doesn’t like what the Machine is buzzing in her implant and she takes a moment to breathe in deeply before she replies.

 

“Four minutes,” she whispers and then looks at Shaw, a serious expression uncomfortably stuck on her face. “Don’t let your eyes off her,” she indicates Tumelo with the nod of her head.

 

Then, Root moves away from Shaw, taking in the furniture and materials in the room in one quick gaze. She grabs a file cabinet and pulls it apart from the wall before she crosses the room and pushes a desk over, flipping it down on the floor. Standing immobile, Shaw looks at her work, wondering when she plans on telling her what is actually happening.

 

“You take this one,” she finally raises her head to stare at Shaw, pointing towards the main entrance. “I’ll take the other,” she means the second door leading into the break room, and Shaw is pretty sure she’s understanding what’s about to happen, but she still wishes Root would take three seconds to confirm.

 

Shaw frowns. “What’s in four minutes?”

 

Root loads her gun silently, obviously still concentrated on something else.

 

“Root?” Shaw asks again, more loudly. She moves to stand beside her and places a hand on her upper arm. “Root, what’s in four minutes?”

 

“It’s three now,” Root corrects. “Officer Briggs called them.”

 

Root tries to move, but Shaw insists, firmly holding on to her, “who?”

 

“The marshals,” Root informs her, locking her determined eyes into Shaw’s. Satisfied, Shaw lets her go, and takes the time to load her gun too before sparing another look at the area, gauging the best hiding points and the room’s weaknesses.

 

“Should we still be in handcuffs?” a panicked Asha asks again, voice trembling and tears swelling up her eyes.

 

Shaw freezes at the question and looks at Root, unsure of what’s expected of her.

 

“You two stay put,” Root orders before she pulls the couch away from the wall. She gestures for them to duck behind it, and even though it isn’t the safest place in the world, it’ll get them both out of their way and out of the line of fire for the time being. Shaw silently agrees with Root and returns to her post by the main entrance, somewhat eager to see some action.

 

Her earpiece is still quiet and she would worry about Finch and Reese’s silence again if she wasn’t shocked by the sheer absence of noise coming from the rest of the police station. Her eyes meet Root’s across the room and she knows she isn’t the only one who noticed.

 

“Ten,” Root whispers, focused.

 

Shaw leans forward, “including the marshals?”

 

Shaw doesn’t like the way Root shakes her head.

 

“What the fuck are we doing here anyway?” She asks with a low voice, ducking behind the filing cabinet Root had moved only seconds before.

 

“Meeting Sergeant Harris,” Root replies as if it was self-evident. “They’re here.”

 

Thirty seconds of silence still go by before the first bullet flies beside Shaw’s arm and lodges itself in the wall below the windowsill. Shaw smirks, her entire body itching for action as she leans to the side and shoots back. She hears a man cursing loudly and she smiles as the gunshots start raining down on them both.

 

“No manners,” she complains, firing two shots at the closest shooter, “no interrogation room,” she lists, hiding behind the cabinet for a few seconds as bullets crash against the metal, loud and violent. “No training,” she continues, and then spares a look at the other end of the room, where Root is kneeling behind the desk, “those guys aren’t much, are they?”

 

Shaw watches as Root moves effortlessly into the line of fire, aiming with precision and distributing her bullets as efficiently as Shaw would herself. The resolute and intense look she gets on her face as she pulls the trigger makes Shaw smirks, and she hears cries of pain from the other room every time Root ducks down to reload.

 

“It’s rude to stare, Sameen,” Root mutters, and even though the room is filled with the chaos of gunshots and random objects falling to the ground, Shaw hears it and smiles.

 

Root leans out from behind the cabinet again, and shoots the two men who had made it to the door – she recognises Peterson and the policewoman from before. She hears their body falling, followed with the usual whimpers of pain, and her grin only widens.

 

“How many left?” she asks Root as she reloads, a bullet flying just beside her head reminding her that the odds aren’t in their favor.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already?” Root jokes, but one projectile comes to lodge itself right where she had rested her hand only seconds ago, and her eyes are widened for a second when she looks at Shaw. She composes herself quickly, breathing deeply as she sends one look to the couple hiding behind the couch.

 

Both girls are still safely tucked behind the furniture and desks, but Root and Shaw can hear their gasps of fear as chaos continues to invade the break room.

 

“Oh I’m having _fun_ ,” Shaw replies joyfully, a smirk stuck on her face as she pulls the trigger again and again, counting the bodies dropping and feeling their chances of survival augmenting with each one.

 

After a few more minutes, she sets down on the floor, back against the filing cabinet, noticing the lack of incoming fire. Shaw frowns and spares a look to the side, taking in the sight of Root. Root has that focused look she gets when the Machine is speaking to her and Shaw waits for her verdict, surprisingly hoping they are done with the action. She hasn’t gotten enough ammo on her to last for very long, and she worries the number or her wife will soon panic and do something stupid that most likely will get one or both of them killed.

 

She concentrates on Root again, but doesn’t like the way she flinches.

 

“Get down,” Root yells from across the room, and almost immediately the window violently shatters, sending shards of glass all over the floor along with a dark, long cylinder that Shaw knows all too well, and recognizes instantly.

 

A flash grenade.


	7. Chapter 7

“Those boys do like their toys,” Shaw groans and hides her eyes into the crook of her elbow as she waits for the familiar blast.

 

The explosion hits her eardrums hard and her throat tightens with nausea that she tries to blink away while she forces her breath to remain steady. Another black cylinder follows the first one, and if she wasn’t so sick to her stomach, Shaw would roll her eyes. Instead, she pulls up her sweater and hides her face as best she can, but not before warning Root: “we’ve got tear gas.”

 

Shaw quickly plunges forward, hiding a hand in her sleeve as she grabs the device. She turns swiftly and throws it into the station’s main room, although she is a bit too late; the device has already started to leak the lachrymal agent, and it leaves a trail of smoke behind as it crosses the air. She gasps when her eyes fill with painful tears and sits back against the filing cabinet, fighting the urge to brush off the pain with the tip of her fingers. She lets the unusual salted water run down her cheeks while she focuses on her breathing, erratic and hard, repressing the coughs that violently shake her rib cage.

 

From within the break room, over the sound of guns firing again and the buzzing in her ear, it is a miracle that she hears similar coughing, indicating the position of the couple – still hidden behind the couch – and of Root – slightly closer to Shaw than before the blast. She realises Root is now covering both entrances by herself, since Shaw is somewhat incapacitated, and her pride takes over.

 

She pulls herself up and loads her gun anew, sparing a glance to the side at Root who immediately returns to safety behind the desk. Shaw notices three new unconscious bodies on the floor as, coming from the shattered window – those guys are amateurs, really – the cold breeze keeps the smoke somewhat dissipated in their corner of the station.

 

“Still having fun?” Root mocks, but she starts coughing again for her troubles.

 

Shaw smirks. “Keep your mouth shut,” she replies, red eyes peeking over the sweater still covering her nose and mouth. Root’s look is a strange mixture of worry and amusement, and Shaw feels oddly warmer under that gaze, but before she has time to dwell on it, two other officers make their way up to the threshold of the room. Root shoots them both down like it’s nothing before she ducks down again, obviously still fighting to retrieve a normal breathing pattern.

 

“Shaw, we’ve got a problem,” Reese’s voice buzzes through Shaw’s earpiece.

 

“No kidding,” she mocks even as a bullet grazes the left side of her waist, burning and cutting the skin, causing Shaw to hiss quietly. Nearby, over some unconscious officer’s radio, she hears countless calls of backup requested, and for the first time she worries they won’t get out of the station quickly enough.

 

Reese, of course, doesn’t know that. He’s probably on his way back from the prison, driving into the night with Finch by his side, maybe even drinking coffee and tea as they travel from the penitential facility to the library and Shaw is suddenly glad she’s not the one with the boring part of the mission, for once.

 

“Hayes is not the one trying to have Tumelo killed,” Reese continues, his low voice hitched with the slightest pinch of worry. “She works for him.”

 

“She works for Hayes?” Shaw repeats, surprised, and she spares Root another look, wondering if she knew somehow.

 

Root, she finds, is tackling problems of her own. A tall and heavy policewoman – who obviously managed to get through the threshold – is swinging rough punches at her, but Root dodges each blow efficiently. She quickly reaches for something in her back pocket, which Shaw immediately recognizes as a taser, and brings the weapon hard against the woman’s side. The officer’s body shakes violently as she cries out, and a smirk appears on Shaw’s face, who knows all too well how the policewoman’s throat is going to hurt like hell now; a gracious side effect of the tear gas.

 

Root glances to the side to wink at Shaw, a distraction that gets instantly rewarded by a violent blow to the back of her head and renders Root unconscious in a matter of seconds. Her body hits the floor even before Shaw has time to register that Asha has gotten out of her handcuffs.

 

Cold and efficient, Tumelo leans down to steal Root’s gun and manages to get up in time to shoot the two marshals left standing in the other room. She walks through the doorway and Shaw hears three more shots being fired, and then the same amount of bodies dropping. When she moves to glimpse at the main room, she notices the ventilation system has done its job clearing the tear gas; the air is crispy and hard to breathe, but as empty as if the smoke had never been there to begin with.

 

In the middle of the room, standing tall amongst the unconscious police force, Tumelo is pointing her muzzle to a man’s head, a hard stare stiffening her features.

 

“Put the gun down,” Asha orders the U.S. marshal, and he slowly obeys, shaking – in fear or anger, Shaw cannot tell. “Should’ve just let it go, Paul.”

 

“I risked my career for this,” the man snarls. He angles his head up and sends a death glare to Tumelo, filled with hate and disgust. “And you want to fuck everything up so you can run away in the sunset with your girl? I don’t think so.”

 

He moves quickly for his second piece and Shaw follows Asha’s footsteps into the room, her own weapon aimed at his head.

 

“Hold on there, _Paul_ ,” she mocks as she walks to him, feet kicking aside the guns she sees on the floor here and there and that would still be within his reach – or any one of those police officers still pinned to the floor, she worries. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

The U.S. marshal smirks and throws his second firearm away. “You’re the one who’s doing something stupid, protecting a monster like her,” he argues, keeping his eyes on Shaw. “Do you even know how many people she killed?”

 

“And you made good money on that monster,” Asha reminds him of her presence by bringing the tip of the gun to the side of his head. “You know, I told you I was done,” she pulls off the safety, “but I can make an exception for you.”

 

Shaw moves her gun from him to her, aiming at Tumelo’s chest threateningly even though she knows that with a slight angling of her wrist, she’ll hit the leg just fine. “Can’t let you kill him,” she says, low voice burning through her throat, sending new painful tears to her unnaturally dry eyes and Asha only smiles.

 

“You know how long I wanted to do that?” her stare leaves Paul to meet with Shaw’s glare, and her orbs are also welling up with water, but Shaw suspects it’s not just from the residue of the gas. “Eighteen I was when I told the police what they had done to Noah, and they turn out to be just as dirty.”

 

Her voice breaks ever so subtly, but Shaw catches it.

 

“How old where you when you started working for Hayes?” Shaw asks, mentally reviewing her options as she tries to buy some time. In her earpiece, Finch’s frantic voice has stopped asking what’s going on and she’s grateful for the little quiet she can get, picturing the sirens that are undoubtedly on their way here right now.

 

“I was too young,” Asha replies, immediately turning her attention back to the U.S. marshal kneeling on the floor beside her. “What did you do, Paul?”

 

The man laughs then, which only makes him cough violently for a few seconds. Then, when the muzzle hits his cheek again, he answers; “I just sent your picture around, with your new name. Gave it to everyone who ever wanted revenge.”

 

Tumelo flinches slightly. “That’s a lot of people,” she grits her teeth, and Shaw thinks she’s not wrong.

 

“Finch, are you hearing this?” Shaw taps her earpiece, even though she knows having another voice buzzing in her ear will only bring back her the nausea caused by the flash grenade. Still, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of ways out of this one, and they do say that two heads are better than one.

 

“Yes, Miss Shaw,” Finch replies, anxious and somewhat sad. “I’m afraid it will be quite impossible to protect Miss Tumelo under these conditions...”

 

Shaw frowns. “What, we just give up?” she asks, surprised. “She just said, she wants out,” she argues, pinching her nose in annoyance even though Finch is not there to see it.

 

“Who are you speaking with?” Asha questions, distrust blaring in the back of her words.

 

“My boss,” Shaw simply answers, ignoring the gun Tumelo points at her.

 

Unfazed by the threat the number poses, Shaw turns her head slightly towards the break room. “Come on Irene, time to go,” Shaw calls loudly, before she shifts to a lower voice as she turns to Asha. “Your wife _does_ know you’re a killer right?”

 

She smirks as she notices the hurt and confused look that spreads on Tumelo’s face when the Russian stumbles out of the room, fearful, still wearing her handcuffs.

 

Shaw doesn’t need to turn around to picture the blonde moving forward, walking amongst the semi-conscious police force – and probably some dead guys too, she realises. Irene is probably staggering as she advances, looking around like she’s completely lost, like she doesn’t even know where she is or even who she is anymore.

 

“You two don’t have to go on your own,” Shaw tells them both, and she wonders if it’s her imagination or if she’s really hearing police sirens in the far distance. “We can help.”

 

Over her earpiece Finch doesn’t sound convinced, but she ignores him. In front of her, the blonde has finally reached Asha’s side, and Tumelo’s expression has returned to cold even as she smiles. “I want to thank you for saving us, before,” the number confesses, but Shaw can see the way her finger hugs the trigger, like it’s ready to shoot any second now. By the way Asha cleared the main room before, Shaw knows it won’t miss.

 

Shaw smirks.

 

“Why are you smiling?” Tumelo asks, nervously raising her gun. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m about to do something stupid?” she mocks.

 

“You already did,” Shaw replies, her smile only widening. “She’s really tougher than she looks.”

 

Asha flinches. “Who?”

 

“My wife,” Shaw says one second before Root’s taser comes down on Asha’s neck, rendering her unconscious.

 

Root doesn’t spare the number another look as she moves to unlock Irene’s handcuffs, whispering reassuring words that Shaw doesn’t catch, busy as she is with knocking out the marshal.

 

“What do you want to do with her?” Root asks, pointing towards Asha. Beside her, the Russian flinches, but doesn’t say a word.

 

“Trunk,” Shaw simply replies, moving quickly to look out the front door. The parking lot is still vacant and she wonders for a second if it’s a trap or not, but there’s no time to doubt as the sound of sirens only grows louder. “You both take her,” she orders, “I’ll cover you.”

 

Root gives Shaw the gun she had been using, still warm from her palm and the shots fired, and Shaw doesn’t have time to wonder about the strange glimpse that lurks in Root’s reddened eyes. Rapidly, Root and the Russian grab the unconscious woman off the floor, painstakingly making their way out of the station and through the small parking lot. Around them, the night is both cold and revitalizing, and they quickly reach the car while Shaw watches the woods and the empty street like they’re the enemy somehow.

 

“I’ll drive,” Root says when she closes the trunk, and before Shaw has the time to complain, she adds with a grin; “someone will have to shoot the cavalry.”

 

As if concurring with Root, the sirens shriek through the otherwise silent night.

 

“Alright,” Shaw agrees, throwing her the keys. “But don’t get used to it.”

 

 

* * *

 

It’s the third time she says so, and if Root brushed the first two insults with the back of her hand, Shaw’s complaints are now starting to get to her.

 

“This place is a _dump_ ,” Shaw looks around, scuffing at the holes in the walls, at the fading tapestry and squeaking worn-down furniture.

 

“Getting used to the luxurious taste of Harold’s safe houses?” Root mocks, but there’s a sting of pain at the mention of Finch’s name. She embraces the familiar surroundings with a gentle eye; she cannot count the times she returned here, wounded or exhausted, and crashed on that old couch, staring at the crack in the wall and imagining how it got there.

 

There’s a knock on the door, but before she has time to move it already opens, allowing Finch and Reese through.

 

“Took you long enough,” Shaw lowers her gun, but welcomes them with her usual pissed-off attitude.

 

“Would’ve been quicker if Root didn’t live in a maze,” Reese replies, and Root smirks.

 

The old factories in this neighborhood all look the same, and it’s almost impossible to find your way through the buildings if you don’t teach yourself to know them like the back of your hand, which she, of course, did a few years ago. “I don’t live here,” she argues, but the others don’t pay much attention to her objection.

 

Reese immediately moves to clear the apartment – as if Shaw and Root hadn’t done that as soon as they had gotten inside. Root rolls her eyes, refusing to get out of the way when Reese gets near her, and by doing so she misses the smile that appears on Shaw’s face. Instead, Root sighs and crosses her arms.

 

Finch is talking with Barysheva in one corner of the room, the Russian relaxing for the first time since Shaw handcuffed her wife to the wall heater’s pipes. As he talks about offering her a new life in another country, with or without Tumelo, Root leaves, uninterested.

 

In her kitchen she finds Shaw eyeing a dirty glass like it’s about to kill her, and Root wonders if she should’ve stayed in the living room after all.

 

“So, you don’t live here?” Shaw asks, going through the cupboards and finding most of them empty.

 

“It’s a safe house,” Root replies, mildly annoyed, leaning against the counter.

 

Shaw laughs before she turns to face her. “Doesn’t look safe.”

 

Root sighs, crossing her arms in front of her. “No camera surveillance, abandoned factory buildings that all look the same... it’s easy to disappear here.”

 

“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Shaw replies, and Root doesn’t know what to make of the subtle note of reproach that linger in her words.

 

“I would,” she smiles, absently closing the distance between them. She brushes a stray of hair out of Shaw’s face with the tip of her fingers, appreciating the way Shaw swallows hardly, like she’s expecting something. Encouraged, Root places another hand on Shaw’s waist to pull her closer, but Shaw flinches.

 

Root lets go of her quickly then, taking a step back as if expecting to be hit and biting her lip worryingly. Shaw frowns at her anxious expression, and then seems to understand.

 

“I got grazed,” she explains, lifting her shirt to reveal the red stripe where the bullet had cut and burnt her skin earlier that night.

 

“Oh,” Root only replies, her curious eyes roaming Shaw’s exposed skin before they move stare at her lips. “We should clean that,” she blinks.

 

“Yeah, we should,” Shaw awkwardly replies.

 

Root gestures toward a door behind Shaw, leading into the bathroom. “I have some supplies,” she suggests, and Shaw nods before she follows her in. In the tiny space of the restroom, Shaw sits on the edge of the tub as Root roams through the cabinet under the sink. She pulls out a bottle of iodine and a clean washcloth, and grins.

 

“Take off your shirt,” she asks, and Shaw glares before she does in one swift movement. She keeps the black sweater in her fist, eyeing the floor like she doesn’t dare leave anything on it. Root rolls her eyes, but still glances at her bare stomach with a fascinated smirk.

 

“Are you done?” Shaw groans.

 

“I’m really just getting started,” Root smiles as she kneels in front of Shaw, taking in the long thin wound that marks Shaw’s skin just above the waistband of her pants.

 

She gets to work silently, soaking the washcloth with iodine before she presses it against the red gash. She listens carefully as Shaw’s breath changes its rhythm, jaw clenching as a form of bracing against the irritating burn of the antiseptic. Root is almost done when she lifts her eyes to look at Shaw, noticing a strange look in her dark orbs.

 

As if on instinct, Shaw reaches for the back of Root’s neck, pulling her close, roughly crashing their lips together. The kiss is rushed and almost hurtful, and Root places one hand on Shaw’s thigh to keep her balance as she leans into her. Shaw is tugging her hair to keep her in place, hissing when Root pushes the washcloth against her wound again.

 

Shaw pulls apart for only a second, enough time to confirm that Root is, indeed, smirking into the kiss, before she runs her tongue over Root’s lips. When Root opens her mouth to allow her in Shaw bites her instead, and she feels the hand on her thigh tightened, fisting the fabric of her pants.

 

“Shaw?” Reese’s voice reaches them from the living room and Root would gladly ignore him if Shaw hadn’t brusquely gotten up, brutally ending the kiss. Root blinks furiously, and she hasn’t returned to her feet yet that already Shaw has put her sweater back on. Seconds later Reese appears in the doorway, a curious look on his face as Root pulls herself up from the bathroom floor. “We’re ready to move out.”

 

Shaw nods, absently brushing her fingers against her mouth before she runs another hand into her hair. When Reese leaves, she steps forward, only to be furthermore confused when Root doesn’t follow.

 

“The Machine needs me somewhere else,” Root explains, throwing the washcloth in the sink. “You’ll be fine without me.”

 

“Always are,” Shaw answers, but it lacks her usual bite.

 

An awkward silence settles between them as Root crosses her arms and Shaw drops her eyes to the floor. They stubbornly linger in their avoidance for a while before Finch’s voice breaks the spell.

 

“Miss Shaw, are you coming?”

 

She throws her eyes into Root’s when she replies, “yeah, Finch, I’m coming.” Shaw takes a few steps towards the living room before she stops and turns again. “I’ll see you around, I guess?”

 

Root grins. “Yeah, I guess.”


	8. Chapter 8

Shaw sits at the bar and swallows another gulp of her beer. She switches her gaze from the counter onto the bottles of spirit behind it, so the barman doesn’t notice her spying on his every movement. She’s trying to ignore the loud, overbearing couple at the end of the bar, but the newlyweds are taking their sweet time remembering how they met here and she represses the urge to roll her eyes for the hundredth time.

 

When the door opens she thinks it cannot get any worse than this, but is proven wrong when a low voice reaches her ear.

 

“This seat taken?”

 

Running a hand through her hair carelessly, Root sits on the stool beside hers, unnecessarily brushing her body against Shaw’s along the way.

 

“What are you doing here?” Shaw asks before she takes another sip of her beer.

 

“I was in the neighborhood, so I came to see you, buttercup,” Root replies as she takes out her wallet and asks for a drink. She takes out a dollar and sets it aside before she pays her tab.

 

As soon as the barman steps to the furthest end of the bar, Shaw uses the opportunity to whisper angrily; “I’m on a job right now.”

 

Root only smiles, her fingers brushing against Shaw’s hand until Shaw pulls it away from the counter. “You know I’ve missed this, honey bee,” Root answers and thanks the barman for the beer before she continues, “you and I, having a drink at the bar, without a care in the world.”

 

Shaw sighs, and she’s about to reply something crude or mean but Root quickly adds, “it’s just like Miami, right?”

 

Shaw looks into Root’s eyes and sees she’s passing along a message. “Yeah, like Miami,” she repeats, trying to make sense of Root’s warning.

 

They drink for a few minutes in silence before Root breathes down deeply and turns around on her seat.

 

“Dance with me,” she asks gently.

 

“No,” Shaw answers immediately.

 

“One dance, pookie bear” she smiles, and steps down her stool, extending her hand. “Come on,” she coaxes, “after years of marriage, don’t you think you owe me at least one dance?”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes at the remembrance of the last time she worked a number with Root and tries to ignore her, but Root doesn’t budge. She frowns and then sighs, surrendering. “One song.”

 

Root gleams when she grabs Shaw’s hand, smoothly picking up the dollar on the counter. She slips the money into an old jukebox, grinning as she leads them to the sticky dance floor. She puts her hands around Shaw’s neck as the song starts playing – the Flamingos, _I Only Have Eyes for You_.

 

“Seriously?” Shaw objects slightly, but still puts her hands around Root’s waist, maintaining her cover for as long as she can. Already she’s been noticed way more than she was supposed to be, and she entirely blames the Machine’s analog interface for it.

 

Root waits for the second verse before she leans in, revelling in Shaw’s awkwardness. “There are six guys waiting for you outside,” Root whispers in Shaw’s ear. “They’ll come in as soon as the lovebirds leave.”

 

Shaw spares one look towards the barman, notices a gang-related tattoo she hadn’t seen yet on his right shoulder, and realises her number definitely isn’t the victim, but a perpetrator. “I can take care of seven guys,” she replies, still glaring.

 

“I know you can,” Root purrs in her ear. “But like I said,” she leans back and places a little peck on Shaw’s cheek. “I was in the neighborhood.”

 

The couple at the bar leaves before the song is over and Shaw’s eyes cross Root’s, where she finds a mischievous grin.

 

“I lied,” Root winks then. “Six in the front, four in the alley,” she adds, pulling her gun out and aiming towards the back entrance. Shaw ducks out of the way when the barman fires at her, and she retaliates quickly, taking him down in two shots. The others burst through the front door, large and overconfident and Shaw smirks.

 

She takes down the first two with her gun and punches the third when he gets too close. Behind her she hears furniture breaking and Root gasping in pain, but as soon as she manages to turn she sees Root is holding her ground. She doesn’t spare her a second look, dodging another punch before she steps back and reloads quickly.

 

Three more shots and only one of her guys remain. She barely hears Root anymore, but in the corner of her eyes she notices her moving quickly and then firing. A loud thump tells her Root is done with her own part of the gang, and Shaw smirks as the large tattooed man trembles. He drops his weapon on the ground and holds his hands up.

 

“Run,” Shaw tells him with a dark look, and when she steps forward he scampers away like a frightened kid.

 

She’s still smiling when the door closes behind him, and Root pulls on Shaw’s belt to yank her close before she kisses her roughly.

 

When they pull apart, Shaw smirks. “So, not _exactly_ like Miami, uh?”


End file.
